


A Change of Heart

by MarieQuiteContrarie (SeaStar1330)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Knight Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Lady Belle, Light Angst, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Romance, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumbelle Christmas in July, Rumbelle Christmas in July 2016, Wedding Night, Woobie Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7555060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaStar1330/pseuds/MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2017 TEA NOMINEE FOR BEST WOOBIE RUM and BEST RUMBELLE CHRISTMAS IN JULY (RCIJ)<br/>For seven years, Laird Roland "Rumple" Denhaim has been betrothed to Lady Belle de Berwick. Belle is now of age and the wedding day is fast approaching, but Roland wants to marry for love, not an alliance of kingdoms. Belle wants to be more than a dowry and a duty. If only they could tell each other...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misunderstood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msninabonita4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msninabonita4/gifts).



> Rumbelle Christmas in July Present for NinaBonita4. The Prompt: Medieval/Victorian; wedding; first time.
> 
> Rumplestiltskin is named Roland in this story, and Belle is the only one who gets to call him Rumple.
> 
> Amazing artwork comes courtesy of moonlight91.

_ _

 

_Scotland, the Borderlands, circa 1475_

She was walking while reading again.

Roland Demhain wiped his sweaty brow with a scrap of cloth and leaned his sword against a tree, taking a brief rest from training. Pulling out a strip of Cook’s dried beef, he chewed slowly as he watched Lady Belle de Berwick circle the moat surrounding the castle, one of the estate’s few books pressed against her nose as she strolled. Roland suppressed a smile and shook his head; it was a wonder the girl could read the words at all with the pages so close to her face.

“Come now, Roland,” said his sparring partner, David de Caoraich, nudging him with the point of his sword. “Stop focusing on your stomach. Or are you seeking an excuse to moon over the lass?”

Glowering, Roland shoved the last bite into his mouth and snapped his attention back to his work. He lunged, answering David’s parry with one of his own. “Belle is a child,” he growled as steel met steel. “I am not mooning.”

“Nay, of course you aren’t,” David said with a mocking bow.

“Save your breath for your swordplay, princeling,” Roland said through gritted teeth, advancing on David. “En garde!”

Roland had David cornered in a copse of trees within a few clever moves. He was about to deliver the fatal blow when a high-pitched cry rent the air, followed by a splash.

Roland whipped his head in the direction of the sound. While his attention was divided, David took a swipe at his knees, causing him to trip and sprawl on his arse. His fellow knight laughed heartily, ribbing him for his clumsiness, but Roland ignored his jests and scrambled to his feet.

Where was the Lady Belle?

Roland raced to the shore of the moat, scanning the perimeter. Ripples tumbled upon the surface of the water, but Belle had disappeared from sight. Saints! The girl must have tumbled into the moat.

“What’s happened?” David called out, his face grim as he rushed toward him.

“Belle’s fallen in,” he clipped out.

Dropping his sword, Roland scanned the surface of the water for bubbles, waiting for her to emerge. Nothing. He dove into the murky, frigid waters. In those heavy skirts, she would sink like a stone. Mercifully, he located her right away; the hem of her dress was caught on one of the jagged rocks that jutted up from the moat’s craggy bottom. Wasting no time, Roland tore the material, then hoisted Belle out of the water and tugged her onto the grassy bank.

His breath came in gasps as he hovered over her unconscious body. With two fingers, he drew her pale lips open and blew into her mouth to stimulate her breathing. It seemed an eternity before she choked and spit a mouthful of swampy water into his face.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, dripping onto her stunned visage. He ran his hands briskly up and down her arms to warm her as she shivered. A wound near her temple oozed with blood and he touched the cut with gentle fingers.

“My book,” she moaned on a panicked gasp, rushing to sit up. “Did it fall in the moat? Is it all right?”

“Lady,” he said, pressing her back down to the ground, “be at ease. There is a gash on your head, you nearly drowned, and all you care for is the state of your book?”

David laughed, the sound gentle and relieved. “I can see you’re both well enough if the conversation has already shifted to reading material. I’ll go see about blankets, bandages, and dry clothing.”

Roland nodded his thanks to David as his friend hastened to the castle, and returned his attention to Belle. Her lower lip began to tremble and her earnest blue eyes widened. “I borrowed that book from your papa’s solar,” she whispered.

“So you found the one book in our entire castle?” he teased. “Perhaps the only one in all of Scotland.” That coaxed a small smile out of her. Satisfied that she was all right, Roland rocked back on his heels, pulling her up to a seated position. “Aye,” he said, locating her book a few feet behind them in the dirt. “Your treasure is safe.”

“Thank you for saving my life, Roland,” she said, still clinging to the front of his drenched tunic as they sat on the ground. “Oh dear,” she said, releasing the fistful of soggy material. “I’m afraid you’re quite rumpled now.” Belle bit her lower lip, and then erupted into giggles.

“Indeed,” he said, grinning at her laughter.

She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Soaked to the skin with her chestnut ringlets plastered against her forehead, she was utterly enchanting—a bonny little urchin. But beneath the innocent, girlish exterior he spied a glimpse of the beautiful woman she would become.

He tore his eyes away from hers to glance down at his chest, then at her slender white legs, now bared to mid-thigh. He gulped and reddened, relieved when one of the lady’s maids scurried forward with a thick woolen blanket. Although he had known Belle since she was a babe-in-arms and he a lad of fourteen, it was improper for him to see a lady—any lady—in a state of undress. He wrapped the blanket around her quivering limbs and stood, offering his hand to help her stand up.

“I think, to commemorate this occasion, I shall call you Rumple from this day forward,” she declared, placing her small, damp fingers in his. She rose on trembling legs, and then staggered under the weight of her waterlogged skirts. He grabbed her around the waist, keeping her from taking a nosedive back into the marshy grass.

“Rumple?” he repeated, turning the strange nickname over on his tongue. It seemed to suit him, though he had no idea why. He bent down to retrieve her book. “ _The Goblin Prince_ , eh?”

“Oh, it’s the most wonderful, tragic story.” Belle clasped her hands and her eyes took on a dreamy haze. “A sorcerer transforms a prince into a goblin and each night he walks upon his castle’s battlements, wailing for his True Love. Only when the prince and his lover share honesty of the heart will the spell be broken.”

“Sounds like a riveting tale, Lady Bookworm,” he said, tapping her nose.

Belle’s hands flew to her hips as she opened her mouth to reply to his teasing, but she was interrupted by the sound of an excited voice.

“Roland!” Laird Malcolm Demhain’s light feet seemed to float along the ground as he hurried in their direction. “Lad, where are you?”

“My father,” he murmured to Belle, hiding the book behind his back as his father pranced and danced his way to where they stood.

At his side, she nodded stiffly, her back ramrod straight.

Roland could hardly blame the lass for her reaction. Rarely were interactions with his papa pleasant.

Possessing the attitude and mannerisms of a spoiled child, his sire was a selfish, pleasure-seeking ruler. It was a complete mystery that Demhain and Belle’s father were friends at all. He rather suspected that Maurice de Berwick tolerated his Scottish counterpart as a concession to their border kingdoms, the alliance key to ensuring peace between Scotland and England.

Demhain was a greedy, manipulative bastard, but he was far from stupid.

“There you are. And the Lady Belle is with you. Splendid! I need to speak to both of you.” Demhain said, the triumphant gleam in his eyes hardening. He looked them up and down, assessing their soaked forms, and frowned. “Assuming you’ve finished playing in the water?”

“It was my fault, my lord,” Belle said, eyes downcast. “Please forgive my clumsiness. I fell in the moat, but Roland rescued me.” She did her best to curtsy with the heavy blanket draped over her sodden gown.

“So gallant,” Demhain said, his disdainful sniff illuminating his opinion of chivalry. The elder Demhain waved Belle’s apology away and clapped his hands twice with childish glee. “Now for my news.”

Roland sent a nervous glance in Belle’s direction. His restless father was forever concocting harebrained schemes to add gold to their collection and land to their kingdom. His heart began to race, wondering what machinations his father could have in mind that involved both he and Belle. “Sir?”

“Lady Belle is now your betrothed,” his father announced with a satisfied smile. “Lord de Berwick and I have come to an understanding and all is arranged. Belle brings a handsome dowry and will keep our coffers filled for many years. What do you think about that?”

* * *

 

_Seven Years Later  
_ Roland guided his horse, Copernicus, back to the stables, his breath labored after an exhilarating morning ride across the lowlands. He’d hoped that greeting the dawn on the gelding’s back would clear his head, help him forget. Tomorrow, Belle and her family would arrive to finalize plans for their wedding. The ceremony was meant to be a fortnight from today. To Roland’s mind, marriage should be a joyful occasion, but his heart was heavy.

Was there anything worse than being pledged to marry a woman who dreaded her wedding day?

Roland brushed Copernicus’s mane, each stroke of the brush punctuated by a memory of his father’s reminders of why Berwick’s only daughter was an excellent match for him. _Handsome dowry. Plentiful property. A foothold into England._

Money and power were all that his father, God rest his wicked soul, had cared about. Kingdoms stood or fell on the principle of might over right, and alliances of survival and convenience were the way of things.

Love was a frivolity few could afford, true, but Denhaim’s coffers were plentiful. Their people were healthy and well, and Roland was content with his wee bit of sand by the sea.

Besides, what about Belle’s feelings? Her desires, her interests, her choices? She had spoken of traveling the world—of visiting Europe, the Far East, and the Highlands—ever since she was a little girl. Now, with his father dead and buried, the care of the kingdom rested on Roland’s shoulders. He had little time to squire his would-be bride to exotic destinations.

Not that she wanted to travel with the likes of him, anyway.

Flushing with embarrassment, Roland recalled the day seven years ago that his father had announced their engagement. Still dripping from her foray into the moat, little Belle had drawn herself up to her full height, stomped her foot in the mud, and informed his sire that marriage was out of the question. “No one decides my fate but me,” she had declared, her eyes as fierce as the waves that crashed against the outer wall of the castle citadel. “I will never marry—not Roland nor any man.”

Mortified by her abject refusal, he had begged his father and Belle’s to reconsider. Though they refused to void the marriage contract, they did make two concessions. The first, that the marriage would not take place until after Malcolm Demhain’s death; the second, that Belle’s dowry would be immediately available to their kingdom. Later that evening, after conferencing with her parents for several hours, Belle emerged from her chambers pinched and white-faced. She offered a stiff apology to his sire and said she would agree to the marriage.

Roland hadn’t spoken of the betrothal to Belle since that trying day, and he’d tried to forget the sting of her refusal. Through the years leading up to his father’s death, they’d fallen into a casual friendship, keeping conversation to safe topics—food, foreign lands, the weather—but the marriage contract was a subject they’d carefully avoided.

In those seven years, Roland had watched Belle grow up, transforming from a precocious child into an intelligent, stunning woman. His betrothed possessed a quick wit and an even quicker tongue. She was literate—an accomplishment unheard of among women of the peerage. She could ride. She could shoot. No doubt she could run a household with a precision and grace that rivaled noblewomen twice her age.

And each day he spent in her company, he’d fallen a bit more in love with her indomitable spirit and keen mind.  

Roland knew Belle thought well of him, liked him even. Mayhap she felt indebted to him for saving her from drowning. The logical part of his brain knew her refusal of his suit wasn’t personal. Yet his heart ached with sadness. She didn’t love him, and that painful truth kept him awake many a night, pacing the castle’s battlements when he should have been abed.

He patted Copernicus’s nose and shined an apple on his overtunic, taking a bite before offering it to his companion. Why couldn’t women be as simple as horses and men?

“Woolgathering, my lord?” someone asked from behind him.

Roland gulped. He knew that voice as well as his own. _Belle was here. Today. Now._

The sneaky bit of baggage had caught him unaware. He wanted to panic, to flee to his private chambers and hide. But that wasn’t an option. A knight didn’t turn tail and run away from confrontation.

Pasting a pleasant smile on his face, Roland whirled around to greet her. “Lady Belle! You are a welcome sight. We didn’t expect you and your parents until tomorrow. How is it you’ve arrived already?” He grasped her hand and feathered a kiss against the backs of her fingers.  

The first sight of her nearly knocked him to the ground. Belle was stunning in a deep green riding gown that draped pleasingly over her curves. Framed with dark, thick lashes, her wide blue eyes sparkled with some emotion he could not define, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

“Hello, Rumple. I rode ahead,” she said with a smile, then whistled for her mare, Phyllis. The obedient beast trotted into the stable and Belle led her into the stall next to Copernicus. “Do you have any more of those apples?”

“What do you mean, you rode ahead?” he asked, his protective instincts flaring to life. Roland tossed her a piece of fruit. With great effort, he crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her. She was maddening! After less than 60 seconds in her company, his desire to shake sense into her was already at war with his desire to hold her close. Instead he bit out, “You know the dangers of riding across the open plains without a guard, lady. You could have been beset by ruffians…or worse.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m a strong rider.”

“It isn’t you I doubt, Belle,” he said, leaning forward to tap her nose with his finger. “But there are enemies lurking in the woods around these lands who would use you as a pawn to demand a ransom. If something happened, your parents would be frantic with worry.”

“And you, Roland?” She peered at him through guileless blue eyes. “Would you be worried?”

“Aye, of course.” He cleared his throat, her beauty and nearness making him jumpy. She couldn’t mean she _wanted_ him to worry? “Did you at least stop at the monastery en route to my castle to terrorize the holy men?” he teased, trying to lighten the charged atmosphere. “I’m surprised that didn’t delay you for at least a pair of days. More illuminated manuscripts!” he said with a high-pitched chortle, then pulled a whip from a tack in the wall and struck the ground with a grin.

“Do not imitate me, Rumple, you do it ill,” Belle said with mock severity. “The monks prefer to transcribe religious texts, though I have wrangled the occasional story out of them. I do love books.” Her eyes danced and a dimpled grin lit her features.

“An understatement, lady,” he said, and his heart hammered in his chest as she giggled.

He did so love to hear Belle laugh.

“Papa and Mama began making preparations to leave as soon as we heard the news, but I did not want to delay seeing you, my friend.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry about your loss, Rumple. Despite the strife between you, he was still your papa.”

It seemed she was determined to be serious today. That and she was touching him. Touching him and calling him her friend. His heart felt soft and squishy, like a wet sponge. He cast about, searching for an appropriate response to her condolences.

“My father was a conniving, selfish bastard,” he said bitterly. But those were only words, words to cover up the gnawing ache of never being enough for Malcolm Demhain, or for anyone, really. Belle was right. Even with their complicated relationship, losing his father had shaken and saddened him.

“Laird Demhain was rather…opportunistic,” she said, nodding.

“A kind descriptor,” Roland said with a smirk.

“But then, I suppose you are Laird Demhain now,” she said brightly, reminding him of his duty.

“Aye.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. The kingdom. The castle. The army. The serfs. All were his to command and care for. Not to mention his most important duty—seeing to the happiness of his future wife. Assuming she hadn’t accosted him in his stables to call off the wedding.

But he wanted so much more than duty and to fulfill a bargain between their sires. He wanted love. Love with a woman who loved him in return.

“Do you remember the day we became betrothed?” Belle asked, glancing at him from beneath lowered lashes as she stroked her mare’s nose.

He froze as an image of Belle stroking him with the same devotion she showed to her horse sprang unbidden to his brain. But she had asked about the betrothal. He tugged at his ear, wondering if he’d heard right. He and Belle not spoken of their marriage since the day their fathers had signed the contract.

“How could I forget?” He winced, reluctant to remind her of her loud and insistent pledge to never marry him. “You were such a brave lass. Making off with my sire’s book. Reading it and asking provocative questions, while he blustered and boasted like a child, pretending to have read it.”

“That was the day you saved my life,” she said. “After I stupidly tripped and fell into the moat.”

“You were only a child,” he said, leaning against the stable wall. “It wasn’t your fault.”

 “I’m not a child anymore, Roland,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Nay,” he agreed, trying to stop his knees from knocking together. _This was it. This was the moment she backed out of the marriage._ It was her right to buy her way out of the betrothal agreement if she wished. He curled his palms into fists, bracing himself for the crushing blow to his ego, the bad news he’d been expecting every time he’d seen her in the past seven years.

Had he enough courage, he’d have ended the betrothal himself. Yet it was more than cowardice and a contract that kept him from giving her an out.

He loved her.

He just had a terrible, gut-twisting sensation that she didn’t feel the same.

* * *

Belle’s shoulders were slumped as she walked to the beach, the thick and salty sea air burning her nostrils. Settling down by a crop of rocks, she sank into the sand and pulled a book from her satchel. She ran her fingers over the etched cover of _The Goblin Prince_ , the title she’d stolen from Rumple’s papa years earlier on the day she had fallen in the moat. Despite her terrible behavior, Rumple had let her keep it, saying the inhabitants of the castle would never miss it.

She’d grown to cherish that volume, partly because she loved the story, but mostly because she had grown to care for the man who had given it to her.

_Belle, you imbecile._

Today had been another in a long line of graceless, failed attempts to tell Roland how she felt. That she was happy to be marrying him. That she loved him. Not as a friend, but as a woman loves a man.

She’d tried to bring up the betrothal, to find a way to pick through layers and years of conversations and apologize for being a bratty thirteen-year-old who’d humiliated him in front of her parents and his father by refusing a suit that hadn’t even been his idea.

The moment she’d seen him in the stables today, his shoulder-length hair wild from being whipped by the sea winds, her mouth had gone dry.

Though he was a battle-hardened warrior, strong in every way that mattered, he was only a hand taller than she was. She could gaze into those warm, intelligent chocolate eyes without craning her neck. She could step into his embrace and tuck her head under his chin; press her nose against his throat to inhale his spicy scent of sandalwood and clove. She could leap into his arms and smother his cheeks and aquiline nose with kisses.

But she hadn’t done any of those things.

Always the perfect gentleman, the chivalrous knight, the gracious lord, Roland was nothing if not polite and she enjoyed his good-natured teasing. Her future husband’s intelligence, dry humor, mastery of weapons, and appreciation for the arts were sterling qualities that Belle loved and respected. But she wanted more. She wanted his passion, his desire, to be the one person on earth who could make him come undone. But he was so obviously _not_ attracted to her, and the fact made her want to weep.

When she could no longer bear his disinterested benevolence, she’d left the stables, making some ladylike excuse about needing to rest after her long journey. Instead, she’d headed here to the beach to sulk in private.

Settled on her favorite blanket, she opened her book, but her thoughts were consumed with Roland and the words on the page were blurry and nonsensical.

“I thought I might find ya here,” said a familiar voice.

“Will Scarlet!” Belle flung her book into the air and put a hand to her chest. “You scared ten years off my life. What in God’s teeth are you doing here?”

Wearing a hopeful grin, the knight fell to one knee and dangled a daisy in front of her face, but his smile faded when she turned toward him.

“I followed you,” he said, placing the flower in her lap when she didn’t take it. Stubbornness hardened his jaw. “It’s my duty to see to your safety.”

Belle sighed. Will was nice enough. A good warrior and a kind man. And as captain of her father’s guard, he took his responsibility of seeing to her safety seriously. Too seriously.

If Will had proposed marriage to Belle once, he had proposed half a dozen times. And on each occasion she reminded him that she was happily betrothed.

“I’m quite safe here with Laird Demhain, I assure you,” she said, laying the flower aside. She dusted the sand off her lap and rose to her feet.

Will made a show of scanning the shoreline for Roland. “Aye? Where is he, then?”

“I came to the beach for some air.” She looked at him pointedly. “Alone.”

“Belle, I don’t understand why you’re marrying him.” Will nodded toward the castle.

“Besides the fact that it’s completely improper for you to be here when no one else is about, Sir William, that comment is impertinent,” she snapped.

“Forgive me, Lady Belle,” Will said, staring at the ground. “I mean you no disrespect. And I hold you in the highest esteem and seek only your happiness.”

“I know that,” Belle said softening. “Your concern is appreciated, but it’s unwarranted. I am marrying for love.”

At least that much was true. She did love Roland. She simply needed to summon the courage to tell him.

* * *

Ronald fisted his hands at his sides, reeling from the exchange between his soon-to-be-wife and the young, handsome knight who’d fallen to his knees before her. He rubbed his own aging knees and scowled. Though he’d been too far away to hear their conversation, the situation was quite clear. The bastard was smitten with his Belle, and she didn’t appear averse to his attentions. Will Scarlet was a fine example of courtly love, and a better match for his lady in many ways. He was young and virile; he was trusted by Belle’s sire; and best, of all, he didn’t have the responsibility of running a keep, freeing him to escort Belle to all the exotic places she’d always wanted to go. Jealousy burned in his gut, yet the eyeful of mutual pining he’d received was what he deserved for spying.

Roland cracked his knuckles and stomped away from the beach, heading back toward the lists by way of the kitchens. Exercise was what he needed. Someone he could pummel while pretending it was the dashing, earnest, eager-to-please whelp Will Scarlet.

Where the hell was David, anyway?


	2. The Warlock

“What difference does it make why she marries you, so long as she does?” David asked, blowing the dust off his breastplate.

The sparring partners had engaged in two hours of swordplay, and now sat in Roland’s solar, cleaning their weapons and mail. Roland had burned off some of his rage, and now his muscles ached along with his heart.

“It makes every difference,” Roland spat through a mouthful of grapes. “I want her love, not her fealty.”

David shook his head. “You’re the only man I’ve ever met who creates problems where none exist. It’s the law. Who cares what Will Scarlet wants? Lady Belle is betrothed to you, and that’s as good as married in this land. By the saints, Roland, you could have carried her home as your bride years ago.”

“I don’t want her shackled to me.” Roland shook his head, then said softly, “I want to be her choice.”

“She has no choice,” David replied, handing his mud-caked boots to a page to be cleaned. “Nor do you. Unless you want to pay a bride price, embarrass her kingdom, and create a scandal.”

“What need have we of enemies when I have you here to cheer me?” Roland groused. “It’s Belle I value, not her dowry. Though thanks to my father, we’ve been siphoning gold from Berwick for years.”

David nodded. “True.”

Frustrated, Roland tossed his squire the orange he’d been peeling and raked his fingers through his hair. “There are moments I could swear she feels something between us, but then the moment slips away. If only I could know if she cares for me.”

“Why not ask her?” David sipped on a chalice of cool, watered-down wine, then offered it to Roland.

He took a large gulp and passed the goblet back. “Are you mad? What if she says nay? Not only will I have to endure marriage to a woman who doesn’t love me, I’ll have destroyed the peace between us, too.”

David shrugged. “Perhaps love will come in time, my friend. It did for Mary Margaret and me.”

“You are a fortunate man,” Roland said. David and Mary Margaret had one of the few love matches he’d heard of in all of Christendom. “But I cannot count on maybes. I need to know.”

“Well, if you won’t ask the lady herself, visit the warlock who lives at the edge of the village,” David said.

“Don’t be preposterous…wait, did you say the warlock?” Roland asked.

“But…” David began.

Roland held up a hand for silence as he paced and pondered David’s advice. He had heard tales of the peculiar wizard who lived on the outskirts of the village near the forest, but he had never laid eyes on him. Perhaps he could be useful in divining how Belle felt. And, if she didn’t return his affections, a powerful warlock must have _some_ way to make the lady love him. They were pledged to be married anyway, so they may as well be happy.

“Aye.” Roland nodded, the matter decided. “Every so often you say something intelligent, David.”

“Lord help us, Roland.” David paled and crossed himself. “I was joking. You’re not actually thinking of going to him? For what? Some sort of spell? Who knows what sort of trouble this will lead to.”

“Don’t start wringing your hands like a woman now, princeling. ‘Tis a splendid idea, and I have you to thank for it.” He clapped David on the back. “Speaking of gratitude, don’t you have your own castle to tend to? I’ve humiliated you for long enough in the lists. Go home and see if your wife will take pity on your poor, abused form. I’ll go see the warlock on the morrow before Belle’s parents arrive.”

“I don’t think I should leave you on your own, my friend. I have a bad feeling you’re going to need me,” David said.

“As you wish,” Roland said with a shrug. Whistling, he left the room to make final preparations for his guests.

* * *

Early the next morning, before sunlight broke over Denhaim Ruith, Roland set off to find the warlock. Wanting to escape on his errand before his perceptive betrothed rose to greet the day, he broke his fast on horseback. ‘Twas a modest breakfast of bread and hard cheese that he’d stolen from the kitchens, hopefully without arousing Cook’s suspicions. Leroy ran the keep’s kitchens with an iron fist, aware of the precise items and quantities that were in his larder at all times. He was a pain in the arse, but the meals he produced were the finest Roland had ever tasted. Everyone from the laird to the lowliest servant ate well, and Roland did not want to provoke his ire.

David had given Roland general directions toward the hut where the warlock was rumored to live, but he seemed to be traveling deeper into the forest than he’d anticipated. As the branches and brambles grew thicker, the path grew dark and bumpy and he lost his sense of time and place. Fog descended, thick and cool, and riding became treacherous. When he could no longer see farther than a hand’s length in front of him, Roland dismounted and tied Copernicus to a tree. Better to travel the rest of the way on foot before his horse threw a shoe or he rammed into a tree.

Roland paused as he came to a fork in what could only charitably be called a road. Running his fingers through his hair, he pondered his next move. Which way should he go?

A winking light caught his attention, a flimsy winged apparition that seemed to shimmer and float like gossamer, brightening and fading as it rippled in the thick, foggy air. A will-o'-the-wisp. It seemed to be waving him down the path to the right. Roland took a cautious step forward, then stopped, narrowing his eyes. These crafty creatures were notorious for leading an unsuspecting traveler to his doom.

The wisp became insistent, shining as brightly as a lantern in the darkness. It stubbornly remained in the center of the path, gliding to and fro like a sprite, waiting for Roland to follow. Through the mist he saw a clearing, and in the clearing, a stone cottage appeared. The mist rolled away like a scroll, and the wisp appeared to smile as if to say, “I told you so.”

Was he still abed and dreaming? Roland rubbed a hand across his face. His superstitious father had raised him on stories of magic and spells and ancient druids, but although he had heard many fantastical tales, he had no personal experience with the paranormal. He blinked, but the cottage was still there, thick with ivy, and looking more corporeal with every moment.

The warlock’s residence.

“If I follow this path and wind up teetering on the precipice of a waterfall instead of at the warlock’s door, I’m holding you responsible,” he said, pointing at the will-o'-the-wisp.

The wisp made a high-pitched squeak that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Roland smiled in spite of himself and started down the path once more. Minding his footfalls, he inched toward the cottage, his sword drawn for good measure. With the edge of his blade, he reached out and poked the stone wall of the cottage. It felt solid, the way a wall should, and though the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, he pressed on until he reached the entrance.

He’d come this far for help with Belle, and he was going to see it through to the finish.

Drawing a determined breath, he rapped on the warped wooden door.

At once, the door swung open and a pair of wild grey eyes rimmed with coal peered at him from the dim light within the cottage. A long, thin arm snaked out and tugged him inside. The door closed with a slam, shaking the entire structure.

“Did anyone see you?” the owner of the wild eyes barked.

Roland could only stare. Tall and lanky, the man wore an overtunic with large lapels and long coattails atop a crimson tunic. A patterned piece of cloth was tied around his neck, and on his head he wore a high, cylindrical hat fashioned out of silk. This was the warlock?

“I said, did anyone see you?” the man repeated.

“What? No,” Roland said, looking around the one-room home.

It was the most peculiar space Roland had ever seen.

A fire crackled in the hearth, the twigs snapping and popping, sending a spray of sparks across the stone. In front of the hearth, a cauldron bubbled and steamed. The modest room was crammed with tables, at least ten of them, covered with papers and glass vessels containing brightly colored liquids. Shelves were carved into the stone walls, and each shelf was crammed with hats. Dozens and dozens of tall, outlandish hats in shades and patterns as wild as the ones the Romani wore. Only these hats were like nothing he had ever seen—each one stranger than the last.

“Good.” The warlock’s tone was clipped. “State your business.”

“I beg your pardon?” Roland asked, distracted by the strange abode as well as taken aback by the warlock’s brevity.

“As well you should,” the warlock said, sprawling into a chair and examining his fingernails with a bored stare. “I’ve not all day, Laird Demhain.”

So this fiend knew who he was, and yet he had the audacity to speak to him like he was a common village serf. “You forget yourself, warlock,” he warned, teeth on edge.

“You have come to me for help, have you not?” he asked, an ironic slant in his eyes.

“Aye.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” he said.

Roland felt a mixture of irritation and grudging respect. “I have a problem, warlock. I need your assistance. Your magic.”

“The name’s Jefferson. It’s about a woman, isn’t it?” A knowing smile chased across his face.

Roland gaped at him, incredulous. “How did you guess?”

Jefferson laughed, a deep, rich sound. “I don’t guess. I know.”

“Fine,” Roland said through gritted teeth. After two minutes in this overblown arse’s company, he’d already had his fill of games for one day. “How did you know?”

“Because it’s always about a woman.” Jefferson removed his hat and tossed it on a table, revealing a thick mop of blonde curls. “Have a seat and tell me what the trouble is.”

Roland dragged a chair from the corner and sat down on the edge. “For seven years, I’ve been betrothed. My sire is dead, the lady has come of age, and the wedding is upon us. But I don’t want her to wed me out of duty; I want us to marry for love.”

 “I see.” The warlock pinned Roland with a hard stare. “So you came to me, thinking I will conjure a love potion made of arrowroot, eye of newt, and beetle wings and that will be that.”

“Excellent. I’ll take one of those,” Roland ordered, beginning to feel at ease for the first time since Belle’s arrival. This Jefferson knew what he was about. Why, with any luck he’d be back at the keep in time for breakfast and no one need know he’d been away.

The warlock began to laugh, hooting in great, gasping guffaws. The man laughed so hard he tumbled out of his chair. Roland stared in disbelief as he rolled around on the floor for several minutes, wheezing and sweating with merriment, his face turning as purple as one of Leroy’s pickled beets.

At last he collected himself and brushed the dust off his eccentric apparel, his face as drawn and somber as the grave. “You know what the trouble is with this world?” he snapped. “Everyone wants a magical solution for their problem, and everyone refuses to believe in magic.”

“I believe,” Roland said weakly, starting to wonder at the wisdom of coming here in the first place. He wasn’t a great believer in magic, no, but it seemed to be what this insane magician wanted to hear.

“Do you?” Jefferson eyed him askance. “While I doubt the veracity of that claim, my lord, I have decided to help you. But you should know, the number one rule in magic is this: I can’t make anyone fall in or out of love. Either the lady loves you or she doesn’t.”

“Can you at least tell me how she feels?” Roland asked.

“Let me see what I can do,” Jefferson said. The warlock spun toward the cauldron and gave its contents a mighty stir. He strode around the cabin with long, loping steps, collecting items from baskets and tables, which he began tossing over his shoulder. Feathers, insects, dried herbs, and a bone of some kind sank into the giant, bubbling pot, but other items landed on the floor.

“Don’t you need these?” Roland asked, bending over to pick up a few of the ingredients that hadn’t landed in the cauldron.

“Why would I want those?” Jefferson asked, looking at Roland like he was the mad one. The warlock plucked a hair from Roland’s head, threw it into the pot, and mixed vigorously. He scanned the walls of hats and chose a forest green velvet concoction with a wide brim. He flipped it over, thrust his hand inside, and produced a small vial filled with a bright orange liquid. “There,” he said, smiling at the glass container before presenting it to Roland. “This should bring out everyone’s true…color. Drink this, and tonight at sunset you should begin to see some changes.”

“Wait.” Roland eyed the vial in confusion. “I thought you said no potions.”

“You don’t want it?” Jefferson asked with a disgusted snort.

“Yes, I want it,” he said, accepting the tiny bottle. “But you said…never mind. So I drink this, and I’ll find out how my lady feels about me?”

A smirk played upon the warlock’s lips. “That’s right, my laird.”

Roland held the bottle up to the light. All he needed to do was drink this potion, and he would know how Belle felt without ever needing to ask. His heart lurched in anticipation. Perhaps he would learn she did not love him, but at least he could know the truth without being humiliated.

“Slainte,” Roland said, his hand shaking as he tipped back the vial. He swallowed the brilliant orange mixture in one gulp. It was thick and cloyingly sweet, with an aftermath of bitterness. He hoped the taste wasn’t a bad omen.

“Love makes fools of us all,” Jefferson said, accepting the empty container with another cryptic smile.

Before Roland could ask him what he meant, the warlock bowed and the front door swung open of its own accord, creaking on the rusty hinges.

“Enjoy the day, Laird Demhain,” the warlock said, ushering him out. “And do return with news of how things went with the Lady Belle.”

“Aye,” Roland said with a backwards glance and a small frown as the door shut behind him. He turned back to knock on the door again, to ask how the warlock had known Belle’s name, but the hovel had vanished in the mist.

* * *

Roland pushed the food around on his plate. They were sharing the evening meal, and he was seated with David to his left and Belle to his right. Leroy had outdone himself, presenting an array of his finest dishes to impress Belle and Lord and Lady de Berwick. But Roland was too jittery over the visit to the warlock and the potion he’d drunk to enjoy any of the suppertime offerings.

That, and he couldn’t take his eyes off his lady.

Belle was resplendent this evening in a pale pink gown with a jeweled belt, her dark curls tumbling down her back, her eyes sparkling with gaiety. Trying not to watch her lush mouth close around a forkful of carrots in dill sauce was enough to drive him crazy. Now, after years of wondering, the wait would be over. Soon the sun would descend into the sea, and Roland would discern Belle’s true feelings for him, just as the sorcerer had promised.

“How did it go with the warlock?” David asked under his breath, serving himself some roasted fowl and placing a succulent piece on Roland’s plate.

Roland picked at his meat and vegetables, only taking a real bite when Leroy threw an angry glare in his direction. He relished a good meal, but tonight the food tasted like sawdust on his palate. Noting that Belle was engaged in conversation with her father and mother, he leaned toward David.

“It was fine,” he whispered, crumbling a crust of bread between trembling fingers. “That Jefferson is a strange one, but he gave me an elixir to drink. Said it would help divine the answer to my problem. I paid him in gold for his assistance and went on my way.”

“Is it working?” David asked, passing a pitcher of watered-down wine.

“Too soon to tell. He said tonight at sunset I would begin to see a change.” Roland forced another bite of fowl and squinted through the still-lit stained glass windows.

“Well, I’m glad it was a success, even if you refused my company for the journey,” David said, raising his goblet in salute. “I wouldn’t want to see you make a deal you didn’t understand.”

“Deal? Who’s making a deal?” Belle asked, catching Roland’s eye as she turned from her parents to join the conversation.

Dumbstruck, Roland swung his eyes first to Belle and then to David.

“We did,” his friend lied smoothly. “I made a deal with Roland for a pair of stallions, but I think he received the poor end of the bargain. Beautiful animals.”

“Roland has an excellent eye for horseflesh,” Belle said, beaming through a bite of salmon.

“Aye,” David agreed, shoveling a huge bite of bread pudding into his mouth with the point of his knife.

Roland smoothed his clammy palms against his thighs, glancing under the table. He blinked hard, and then looked again. Surely he was imagining things, or this was some obscure trick of the light. Aye, the warlock’s spell had addled his brain. He whipped his head up toward the hall’s stained glass windows, which were growing darker by the moment.

The sun was setting.

He looked down again. _His right hand was deep green._ The skin was scaly and shiny, reminiscent of a crocodile. Roland’s blunt fingernails had lengthened and blackened, pointy and sharp as an eagle’s talons. He pushed his sleeve back slightly; the affliction was spreading up his arm at an alarming speed.

He was turning into a monster.

The warlock’s cryptic words and laughing eyes came rushing to his brain. _Drink this, and tonight at sunset you should begin to see some changes._

Roland’s entire body seized with rage. “I’ll murder that whoreson in his bed,” he muttered.

“What did you say, Rumple?” Belle asked, interrupting Roland’s fantasy of choking the warlock hard enough to send his ridiculous hat popping off his head. She glanced at his full plate and bit her lower lip, the way she always did when she was nervous. “Have you no appetite tonight?”

“Ah, not really,” he said, forcing himself not to look down where his hands clutched his napkin beneath the table. He offered his company a strained smile. “But how is your meal? Is everything to your liking? Maurice, Colette? How are your rooms?”

“Everything is wonderful,” Colette praised, giving him a fond look that melted into a worried frown. “Are you feeling all right, Roland? You’ve barely touched your mutton, and it was always your favorite when you were a lad.”

“Perhaps my cook doesn’t prepare it as well as Mrs. Potts does in Berwick’s kitchens,” he said, forcing a smile.

“I heard that,” Leroy said with a menacing frown as he slammed down a platter of roast boar across the dais.

A hush fell over the hall. Every guest, member of his household, and servant had paused in their eating or working, craning their necks to see what the commotion was about. He needed to finish the meal and leave the hall posthaste, before something worse than a green arm befell him.

Using his unmarred hand, he began shoveling great quantities of food down his gullet until the every morsel was gone. He drained his goblet of wine, and David’s too.

Wiping his mouth with a satisfied sigh, his napkin draped over his hands like a shroud, he looked up to see Colette and Belle gaping at him like they’d never seen him before. Only Leroy nodded in approval at his clean plate.

“Wooing is hard work, eh, Denhaim?” Maurice barked a laugh, breaking the strained silence.

“Your eyes look a little glassy, Roland,” Colette said, exchanging a look with her husband. “Are you sure all is well?”

God’s elbows, was the skin condition spreading to his face?

He had to see what was happening to him. Roland leapt to his feet in such haste that he overturned his chair, and fisted his hands behind his back. “Though I am loath to leave such fine company,” Roland said, feigning a yawn, “I am rather tired. Would you all excuse me, please?”

“Of course,” Colette said, grasping Belle by the elbow. “We’re about to retire ourselves, aren’t we, Maurice?”

“Quite,” Lord Berwick agreed.

A servant scrambled to right his fallen chair and Roland took advantage of the distraction to signal David. “Gloves!” Roland hissed through the corner of his mouth, as he reclaimed his seat.

With a questioning glance, David passed his riding gloves under the table. And just in time, too, as Roland’s left hand was now an ugly, sparkling grey-green, matching the right. Beneath the shelter of the table, he slid the gloves over his now-clawed fingers, praying he could exit the great hall without anyone stopping him to ask why he was abandoning his betrothed and her parents in the middle of the evening meal. And wearing riding gloves, no less.

“Roland?” Belle stood up and pressed her cool palm against his forehead, no doubt checking for delirium.

“All is well, I promise,” he said, rising from the table and backing away from her questing hands and searching eyes.

Sweeping as gallant a bow as he could manage, he left the hall, bounded up the stairs, and locked himself in the garderobe.

* * *

Roland awoke with the sunrise and rushed to the mirror. Turning his face in the glass, he examined his reflection from all angles and exhaled in relief. Gone were the crimped hair; glassy, yellowed eyes; and scaly green skin. He looked like himself once more. Nothing spectacular, but a familiar face at least.

He ran his hands over the smooth planes of his cheeks, reassuring himself again that his complexion had returned to normal. This was the first—and the absolute last—time he sought a magician for assistance. The bastard hadn’t helped him; he’d cursed him. The next time he saw that sorcerer, he would wring his lying neck.

For nearly three days Roland had moped in his rooms, hiding his sudden and bizarre affliction from his household, his men, and most of all, his bride-to-be. Already the castle would be buzzing with gossip that he was either on his deathbed or going insane. And although he felt like the Black Death had returned to the land, he didn’t want to arouse suspicions. Today he was determined to go about his day as usual, making sure to be back in his chambers well before sunset.

During his quarantine, he’d passed the time playing chess with himself, looking out at the sea, and plotting the warlock’s demise. He’d slurped bowl after bowl of broth, sent to his chambers via David, the only person he’d allowed to see him in his wretched state. Roland’s stomach growled in protest. God’s elbows, he needed meat! He hadn’t been sick, just ugly.

Now that he knew that his affliction was confined to the hours between sundown and sunrise, he could safely be about his business—at least during the day. Roland ground his teeth, wondering what sort of attentions the dashing Will Scarlet had been paying Belle while he was confined to his private quarters.

A particular knock at the door interrupted his fretting. David’s signal. It was about bloody time.

“Any news? A remedy?” he growled, opening the door.

“Good morrow to you, too, Roland," David said.

“Yes, yes,” Roland said, waving an impatient hand. “What did you learn?”

David sighed and shook his head. “Nothing encouraging, I’m afraid. I traveled to the location you described, but there is no cottage there. Only thick woods. I searched the surrounding areas but found nothing. There’s no sign of anyone living in that area of the forest.”

“Cursed warlock,” Roland said. “And cursed will-o'-the-wisp that led me there. What of the wedding night, damn it? How am I to explain green, scaled skin and rotted teeth to Belle? She’ll think she married a crocodile! I’m not a handsome man on my best day. Why the hell would she marry me when I look like a freak of nature?”

“Nonsense. I’d wed you in a heartbeat,” David said, smothering a smile. “At least you know it’s only the nights you have to worry about. Think of your condition as a chastity belt. Keep Belle’s virtue intact until the ceremony.”

Roland snorted. “You are as amusing as a boil on a backside, princeling.”

“We’ll get this solved before your nuptials, Roland. Worry not.” David clapped him on the back.

“Worry may as well be my middle name,” he said, pacing the floors. “Though in my hours cooped up indoors, I’ve been reasoning this problem out. The warlock said things would begin to change…perhaps he meant more than my looks.”

“You think there was a double meaning in his words?” David asked.

“Precisely. If I change Belle’s heart, make her love me, that will change me back to normal,” Roland decided.

“You’re leaping to conclusions, my friend. Are you certain it’s Belle’s heart that needs to change?” David asked. “She’s been fretting over you ever since you disappeared into your chambers after supper the other night. I’ve dodged her endlessly, trying to avoid her questions. The lady cares for you, do not doubt it.”

“As a friend maybe, but as a husband?” he asked, turning toward the windows to watch the waves crash against the rocks.

The warlock had said _magic_ could not make Belle love him, but what of Roland himself? Perhaps if he wooed his betrothed properly, revealed his devotion, she would fall in love with him. Then he would have his heart’s desire and break the warlock’s spell.

A man didn’t try to win a war without a battle strategy…how different could winning a woman’s heart possibly be?

Aye, once she loved him, this terrible malady would disappear. Unable to make contact with the warlock for a cure, he could only hope and pray that his intuition was right.


	3. Changes

The sound of footfalls startled Belle, and she tucked her book into her skirts, rushing to pick up her needlepoint. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, pricking her index finger on the needle. She sucked the offended digit into her mouth and squinted at her sewing.

“Return to your reading, Lady Bookworm,” Roland said, poking his head around the doorframe. “It’s only me.”

“Rumple!” Hearing the familiar nickname made her grin with pleasure, and Belle tossed the loathsome needlepoint aside, ecstatic to see him.

It had been three days since he had rushed out of the hall looking like the hounds of hell were on his heels, and she had bitten her nails down to nubs worrying. Each day of his convalescence she had poked around the keep, pumping everyone from his most trusted knight to his lowliest servant for information. Everyone she’d spoken with had pressed their lips together and wagged their heads; either they knew nothing, or they weren’t at liberty to share.

If she was honest, she’d been hurt that Rumple refused to see her while he was ill, but David had assured her that Rumple’s chief concern was to protect her from getting sick. Yet that nasty, nagging voice in Belle’s head told her that if her husband-to-be loved her for more than the gold she brought to his purse, he would have wanted his future wife to nurse him back to health.

She detested the idea that she was no more than a dowry and a duty. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him straight out if he cared for her. But nay, he would be polite and honorable, mayhap even lie to preserve her feelings.

That prospect was worse than not knowing.

Belle pushed her doubts away, brightening when she noticed the large picnic basket at Roland’s feet. He was here now, wasn’t he? And seeking out her company. Aye, those were reasons to be hopeful. “It’s wonderful to see you, Rumple. Are you better?”

“Better now that I see you,” he said with a smile. “I’m sorry for abandoning you so soon after your arrival.”

“All that matters to me is your welfare,” she assured him. “Mama and Papa and I are capable of entertaining ourselves.”

“Thank you for being patient with me,” he said. “And now that I’m well, can I tempt you away from your _needlepoint_ for an afternoon of leisure? The weather is very fine.” With a wink, he nudged the picnic basket with a booted foot.

“I’d love to accompany you on a picnic,” Belle said, bending to gather her cloak and a blanket. “May we go down to the beach? I haven’t dipped my toes in the water since we arrived.”

“As my lady commands,” he said, taking her arm and guiding her toward the staircase.

* * *

_The little boat sluiced through the water in a quiet rush, gliding through the peaceful canals. Belle lay cradled in the hull, the heat of the noonday sun and the attentions of her lover making her cheeks bloom. Her lips were swollen and tingling from kisses. Once more her eyes drifted shut, and she felt Rumple smile against her chin as his mouth made a slow, gentle trail along her collar bone and his hands slipped inside her bodice. As Rumple’s warm fingers caressed the swell of her breasts and the boat rocked and swayed, she hummed a soft moan of pleasure._

“Belle? Aren’t you hungry?” Rumple shook her shoulder gently, jolting her out of her fantasy.  

She opened one eye, peering up into his bemused face. They were not on a wedding trip in Venice, and Rumple was not having his way with her in a gondola. She sat up on the picnic blanket and smothered a frustrated sigh. _If only he would kiss her._

Carried by the sea breeze, his spicy scent wafted toward her and she opened her mouth to confide her desires. But if she voiced those thoughts aloud—her longing to feel his mouth and hands on her body—he would be shocked. A proper lady didn’t speak of such things.

Still, it was an ideal day for a picnic. The sky was clear and cloudless, the sun bright and warm as the sea lapped at the shoreline. Though the shore near the keep was too rocky for any but the most bold with heavy boots, they had settled on a fine bit of soft, white sand further south. The wind swished and sang, ruffling their hair. Even now, in early summer, the air at Denhaim Ruith carried a salty bite.

“Yes, of course. I was just…daydreaming.” With a smile, Belle opened the hamper, revealing wine, a crusty loaf of fresh bread, cheeses, apricots, Leroy’s special dried venison, and succulent apple tarts laced with cinnamon and a touch of spirits.

Rumple attacked his meal with enthusiasm, and though he spent hours each day training for battle, Belle was astonished by the amount of food he could consume in one sitting. The man didn’t have a bit of fat on his body, and Belle had spent enough time sneaking glances at his sleek torso to know.

“Are you eating at all?” he asked around a mouthful of cheese.

“What I can steal of it,” she teased, but in truth she was glad that his hearty appetite had returned.

“Forgive me,” he said, coloring with embarrassment. “I haven’t had a proper meal in a few days.”

“It’s fine,” she soothed, alarmed when he stiffened beside her and dropped an apricot on the blanket.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Roland asked, looking down the beach. Belle followed the direction of his gaze, suppressing a sigh. Will Scarlet was approaching. Roland jumped to his feet, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

Will was harmless, and she was accustomed to Will’s mooning glances and overprotective nature, but Roland didn’t know him well. “He won’t hover, Rumple. I promise.”

Will stalked closer, his chest puffed out like a peacock. The knight nodded toward a crop of black boulders down the shore. “I’ll be standing watch over there should any enemies approach. And I should warn you,” he said, glowering at Roland, “I’m scrappy.”

“Thank you for your diligence, Sir William.” Belle kept her words kind and even, striving to be polite without encouraging his attentions.

Will blushed and bowed again. “Anything for you, my lady.”

Rumple scowled at Will’s retreating back, forcing Belle to stifle a giggle.

“Last I reviewed the deed, these were my lands,” Roland complained. “What need have you for ‘Scrappy’ when I am here?”

“Consider him a chaperone, then, in case you have it in mind to steal my virtue before the wedding,” she said, giving him a coquettish smile.

“Hmmpph! 'Tis I who should be chaperoning the two of you. God’s teeth, must he stare at you that way?” he grumbled.

 “Rumple, if I didn’t know any better I would say you were jealous,” she said.

“Nay,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

Belle rolled her eyes heavenward, wondering why it was such a difficult matter to show men anything without smacking them on the head with a sword. Stubborn, clueless man.

“Surely you don’t think I prefer Will Scarlet’s attentions to my future husband’s?” she asked, covering his stiff hand with hers and giving it a squeeze.

His mouth turned up at corners at the compliment and he turned his hand over, allowing Belle to lace their fingers together.

“Let’s not let Will’s presence spoil our time together,” she said, daring to lean forward to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead.

“Fair enough,” he said, his eyes drifting closed when she allowed her fingertips to linger at his temple.

“Are you all right?” she asked innocently, savoring his reaction to her touch.

“Yes,” he said, pressing a warm kiss to her palm that sent a spark racing up her arm.

For the remainder of their outing, they talked and laughed, frolicked and ate, even removed their boots and hose long enough to wade into the icy water. They ignored Will pacing the beach for the most part, though Belle’s heart quickened at the black looks Roland kept throwing his way.

Roland was acting jealous, and Belle couldn’t have been more pleased. Was it more than manly pride causing his affront, or did he feel more than friendship? Mayhap he would even kiss her this afternoon.

“The hour grows late,” he announced, when the sun had passed its zenith. He began to pick up plates, glasses, and leftover food, tossing them into the hamper. “We should hurry, Belle.”

“Hurry? You work much too hard, Rumple. I think you need more fun in your life,” she said, reclining on the blanket in what she hoped was an inviting pose.

“Do I?” he asked, peering into the sky once more. He seemed distracted—the anxious look he’d worn the other evening before he’d fallen ill at supper had returned.

“How about a race back to the outer bailey,” she suggested, pointing toward home. “You see that old well over there?”

“Of course I see it, lady,” he said, lifting his eyes to the sky. “It’s been there since I was born. Why, pray, do I need to keep reminding people that this is my property?”

“Then you already know the legend,” she said with a wink.  “If you race to that well and win, your wish will come true.”

“Legend indeed. More like a nursery fable,” he scoffed. “And I may be an old man, lady, but I’m certain I can outrun you.”

“Prove it!” she cried, flying off the blanket and breaking into a run across the sand.

Even with her considerable head start, he caught up to her with ease. After passing her, he slowed his pace, waggling his eyebrows to make it clear that he was humoring her.

She did the only thing she could in her position. She tripped him.

Belle hooted with glee and paused just long enough to watch him fall face-first in the sand. He lunged, trying to grab her ankle and drag her down with him, but she escaped with a laughing squeal and ran as fast as she could to the well.

“You cheated,” Roland accused, laughing as he reached the well. “And you know you did.”

“Aye,” she confessed with a breathless chuckle, then pulled out a coin and flipped it into the waters below. “We’ll share the wish, but no telling.”

“All right,” he agreed, taking her hands.

Belle closed her eyes, considering her wish. Many were the desires of her heart, but there was only one thing she truly wanted. With all her might, she wished for Roland Demhain to love her.

When she opened her eyes again, the object of her desire was standing only a handbreadth away, studying her with solemn eyes. Their gazes met and he stroked her cheek once, then dropped his hand. “Not yet,” he whispered. Before she could ask what he meant, he moved closer still, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her. His hands lingered as they fastened the clasp.

 _Now. He was going to kiss her now_. “Thank you for today. I had a wonderful time,” she said, closing her eyes and tipping her face up to encourage his lips to find hers.

“We should go,” he said, his voice firm. “We’ll miss supper.”

Embarrassed and confused, Belle snapped her eyes open and nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

They walked back to the castle in total silence.

* * *

Belle’s half-stitched wedding gown blurred in front of her face, and she rolled over, clamping her eyes shut against the silk and lace confection. It was only a few days until her wedding day, but she was dreading the ceremony.

The gown was blue—the color of true love. Ha! What a jest that was.

After parting ways with Roland yesterday afternoon, Belle had fled straight to her rooms and burst into tears. Never in her life had she been so emotional. All evening and all morning she’d lain in bed and sulked, reliving her humiliation.

She’d made her interest clear and Roland had rejected her.

Listless and exhausted from crying, she pulled the blankets over her head. She had no wish to explore the castle or its grounds. She had several ideas for new tea blends, but she didn’t have the strength or purpose to rise and prepare them. Even reading–her favorite pastime—held little interest, especially when the words all ran together and she soaked the parchment with her tears.

A light knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” she called, wiping her eyes and sitting up in bed.

“Hello, daughter,” Colette said, walking to the dress form and fingering a light blue sleeve. “Shall we try to finish this wedding dress today?”

Belle frowned. It was the only sewing project she’d ever shown enthusiasm for. Normally, she detested needlepoint, but this dress was special. Or it had been special. Until she had behaved like a fool. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Oh. It must be a fascinating read,” Colette said, nodding toward Belle’s untouched book with a fond smile. “You missed last evening’s supper and this morning’s breakfast.”

“Not really,” Belle said, wishing that a riveting book was her biggest problem. She turned her head away so Mama couldn’t see her red-rimmed eyes.

Back home at Berwick, it wasn’t unusual for Belle to disappear into her chambers with a book and not appear until well into the following day. The sheets were pocked with scorch marks from all the hours she’d spent reading by candlelight beneath their shelter. Papa often commented that someday Belle would burn them all to death in their beds, but the words were always said with a lopsided smile.

Mama crossed the room and laid a cool hand on her forehead. “You haven’t been reading? But you’ve been languishing in your chambers half the day. Are you sick?”

“Not exactly,” Belle said, staring down at the coverlet. Her pride simply didn’t want to admit that she couldn’t face Roland, not even to Mama.

“Then why are you hiding in here?”

“I’m not hiding,” Belle lied.

“Hiding is exactly what you’ve been doing,” her mother said, gathering her close. “I can see that you’ve been crying. Now why don’t you tell me what the trouble is.”

“I don’t understand,” Belle said on a sob, her mother’s comforting embrace causing emotion to overwhelm her once more.

“Understand what, sweetling?”

“Men,” Belle sniffled.

“And by men you mean Roland,” her mother said with a musical laugh.

“In all our years of betrothal, he’s never even tried to steal a kiss,” she said, wiping away tears. “Never held my hand overlong or looked at me with anything other than gentlemanly propriety. We are…friends.” The last word was said bitterly.

“Roland is a knight and laird of Demhain Ruith. The code of chivalry is very important to him,” Colette said. “There are rules of propriety to be observed, but that has no bearing on how he feels about you.”

Belle huffed, ignoring Mama’s logic. Propriety could be damned as far as she was concerned. “Even Will Scarlet is more forward than my husband-to-be. Yesterday Roland invited me on the most wonderful picnic, I practically threw myself into his arms, and as soon as I did, he insisted on leaving the beach!”

“Belle!” Colette pulled back and gave her an owl-eyed stare. “What sort of texts are those monks transcribing?”

“I’m not a little girl, Mama,” Belle said, lifting her chin. “I know what happens between a man and a woman. Is it so wrong that I want the man I’m to marry to love me? To want me?”

“Not wrong at all, but if you have no care for decorum, may I suggest a modicum of patience?” Colette’s tone was stern yet kind. “Roland recently lost his father, his only family. Marrying will be a change for both of you—and your households.”

Belle scowled at the mention of Malcolm Denhaim. “There was little love lost between Rumple and his papa, and you know it. I am his family now. That’s what a wife should be. And I want us to be in love; to be best friends who spend time together and respect each other. Two people who fit together so well that we can’t tell the difference between where one begins and the other ends,” she said.

“Slow down, Belle,” Colette said. “Weddings are rather like sunsets—the romance of the moment sweeps us away. But marriage is the sea into which that red sun sets. It takes time to build a strong, lasting union. I think you and Roland will be all the things you want and more—eventually. You are a wonderful match. But you didn’t always think so, did you? It took some time for you to come around.”

“I know,” Belle said sheepishly. All too well she remembered the petulant, headstrong thirteen-year-old who refused to marry him. She’d never worked up the courage to apologize for her behavior that day, and it haunted her still.

“Mistakes can be forgiven and forgotten, and you were young. But now I want you to do for Roland what he did for you all those years ago. Be patient. Let him set the pace,” Mama said. “Daughter, I know you like to act on your passions, but sometimes being brave isn’t about taking action. Every so often being brave means having the courage to wait and see. This is one of those times.”

“It’s just that…I don’t want to be his consolation prize,” she confessed.

“You aren’t,” Colette said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you aren’t watching.”

“How does he look at me?”

“Like a man in awe of his bride,” Mama said, hugging her close. “Now let’s plan the rest of your wedding.”

“Thank you, Mama. You always know the right things to say,” Belle said, returning the embrace.

The tightness in Belle’s chest began to lift. Her mother was right—she just needed to give Rumple time. By the wedding, all would be well. 

Colette smoothed Belle’s curls away from her face and kissed her nose. “Let’s go get that gold fabric we were considering. It will be beautiful with the blue. Now, which day would you like to have the ceremony?”

With a fond smile, Belle recited the age-old saying she'd learned at Mama's knee:  
“Marry on Monday for health,  
Tuesday for wealth,  
Wednesday the best day of all,  
Thursday for crosses,  
Friday for losses, and  
Saturday for no luck at all.”

“A brilliant reply from my brave girl,” Mama praised. “Wednesday it shall be.”

* * *

Roland loped down the stairs, a strip of silk in his grip and a nervous smile on his face.

His wooing had taken a dramatic turn for the worse yesterday at the end of their seaside picnic, and now he needed to make it right. Seeing Belle’s crestfallen face on the beach had felt like spiked irons driven into his gut. His lady had been waiting for his kiss.

Aye, he was inexperienced with women, but even a dolt such as he was savvy enough to deduce when a maiden wanted a man to take action.

Roland had wanted to kiss Belle more than he wanted his next breath. Then he’d seen the sun beginning to sink and he’d flown into a panic, terrified that she might witness his ghastly transformation.

For the thousandth time in the past several days, he cursed the dastardly warlock that had led him astray.

To make matters worse, David had torn into his chambers to rail at him once the household was abed. “Belle just scurried through the hall in tears!” he’d thundered. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Besides the obvious?” Roland had asked, flinching at the fury in his friend’s face. He waved a sulky hand over his green-grey skin. “I had to return to my chambers before lizard man came out to play.”

“This is madness, Roland. You’re supposed to be courting your lady, not vexing her,” David had reminded him. “Show yourself. Tell her what you’ve done. How angry could she be when she finds out you sought the warlock out for love?”

“Then I shall never win her,” he’d said, staring down at his horrible black claws.

“Perhaps you’re right,” David had said thoughtfully. “Belle is shallow; flighty. She’ll take one look at your monstrous form and scream her head off.”

“Belle is _not_ shallow,” Rumple had said, clenching his fists. “My betrothed is the most compassionate, wonderful, nonjudgmental woman the good lord ever put on this earth and I’ll thank you to speak of her with respect before I rearrange your pretty face.”

“I see,” David had said, his expression smug.

Well, damn.

“Soon. I’ll tell her soon,” he’d hedged, trying to appease his friend.

But not today. Today he would continue to woo his lady to love him, and he would start by gifting her the wedding present he’d been planning for months. He worried the silk fabric of the blindfold between thumb and forefinger. Everything was ready, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on Belle’s face when he revealed her gift.

* * *

Roland was beyond relieved that Belle had accepted his apology—as well as a red rose he’d picked himself—after his abrupt departure on the beach yesterday. Now he was leading her down the corridor, his thundering heartbeat so loud in his ears that it seemed to echo amongst the stones. 

“Keep your eyes covered,” he ordered, guiding her into the room with a hand at her waist. “Now, don’t get too excited, because it’s not much. It’s nowhere near worthy of you.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” she said, lifting her hands to remove the blindfold.

“Not yet!” he said, procrastinating. “Eh, what if you don’t like it?”

“Rumple! Stop your teasing. Whatever it is, I’ll adore it. Please, show me now,” she begged.

He grinned wolfishly; she looked adorable and ridiculous, jumping up and down, giggling and clapping her hands with a band of fabric tied across her eyes. His heart gave a powerful lurch.

“Impatient lass. Very well.” He mocked a longsuffering sigh. “Are you ready to see your wedding present?” he asked, removing the blindfold.

“Oh, Rumple,” she gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks as she spun about the room. “It’s a library.”

To his immense delight, she rushed about the blue and cream chamber, touching the tapestries, swinging her feet up on the soft chaise festooned with pillows, and exclaiming over the shelf filled with the books he had procured.

He cleared his throat. “It’s only a few books, I realize. A meager start to a collection. Of course, you shall have all your books from Berwick brought here, and we’ll send to London and commission the monastery for more titles whenever you wish.”

“But the expense,” she protested, her eyes shining with tears.

“Nothing is too good for my bride,” he said, brushing a wayward curl off her forehead.

“I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library,” she said, launching herself at him and throwing her slender arms around his neck, her sweet voice reverberating against his throat. “Thank you, Rumple.”

For a moment he closed his eyes, relishing the excuse to hold Belle in his arms. Paradise indeed. He surveyed the space and felt a surge of satisfaction—the servants had outdone themselves, following his every detail and instruction to the letter. Then he scowled. Belle had flitted over to the spinning wheel in the corner and was running reverent hands along the polished spokes.

“Where did this come from?” she asked, her speech rushed and excited. “Oh, it’s lovely. It looks ancient. Rumple, I’ve visited Denhaim Ruith so many times, and explored almost every nook and cranny of this castle. How have I never seen this wheel before?”

“Because it was in my private chambers. I don’t know why they brought it in here. It ah, belonged to my mother,” he stammered. “I don’t remember much of her—shadows mostly. The sound of laughter, a hint of gardenia blossoms. She died when I was two, so my memories are sparse. But when I work the wheel, whispers of her presence return to me.”

“So you spin to help you remember?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

“Yes.” He flushed, embarrassed by his display and flowery words. “I’m sorry, Belle. I’ll have the contraption removed right away.”

“No, don’t! Please. I love it!” she cried. “Oh, can’t it stay in here?”

“But this library is for your personal use,” he said, puzzled. “So you can pass leisure time on your own.” Even with his limited experience with the fairer sex, he knew Belle was unique among women. It was one of the many reasons he loved her. But didn’t all women enjoy their solitude, away from duties and responsibilities and men?

“What if I prefer to pass my leisure time with you?” she asked, lowering herself into an overstuffed chair draped with a soft, warm blanket the color of her eyes. “Imagine me reclining here with a book and a tray of tea and shortbread while you sit by the window and spin. If it pleases you, I could read aloud and feed you teacakes while you work. And perhaps, someday, you could teach me to spin. And share your memories of your mama?”

Roland was poleaxed. Belle wanted to share her special, private chamber with him. She wanted to learn to spin and to hear about his mother. Aye, she was growing to care for him. Soon she would declare her love for him, and he would rid himself of this horrible affliction and be happy with his lady.

“I would like that very much,” he said, tears stinging his eyes.

“Tea.” Belle announced with a brilliant smile. “We must christen our new library. Will you join me for a cup, Rumple?”


	4. Confession

The next few days were idyllic, among the happiest of Roland’s life, and it was all because of his beguiling bride-to-be. Her response to his attention over the past several days had lifted his spirits and his hopes for a happy marriage.

Together, he and Belle had strolled in the gardens, played chess, fished for trout, and even attended a village faire where they amused themselves with games and stuffed their bellies with sweets. They spent their mornings and afternoons in each other’s company, and joked and ate together each evening at supper. Roland had moved up the evening meal by an hour, ensuring that he was in his rooms each evening well before the sun sank below the horizon.

He wasn’t laird for nothing, he thought, pleased with his solution.

Today Belle had suggested an afternoon of horseback riding. After an exhilarating race, which she had won, they now rested in the shade of a crab apple tree, its white blossoms carrying the fragrance of freshly laundered clothing drying in the breeze.

At peace, Roland lounged beneath the canopy, cherishing these precious hours of innocence and fun. Time seemed to stand still as Belle twirled in circles, her face alive with light and life, until she collapsed on the ground in a fit of laughter.

Being with Belle transformed every moment into something rare and wonderful.

A sigh of contentment escaped his lips, and although he hoped Belle had not noticed, she was entirely too discerning. She turned to catch him studying her, and quirked a brow at him.

“Rumple?” she asked. “Is…Are…” Belle trailed off, a faint blush blooming on her cheeks, and she examined her hands in her lap, as though she could forge the courage she needed in the lines of her palms. “Do you think you might want to kiss me?” she asked, glancing at him through lowered lashes.

“Aye,” he answered, surprised but grateful for her boldness. He rubbed his own damp palms on his hose and then leaned forward, inching closer to Belle. Tipping her chin up with one finger, he gazed into her deep blue eyes and brushed the creamy skin of her cheek with his mouth. Tilting his head to the other side, he kissed the other cheek, then pulled back to study her face.

Her parted lips were red as a rose and her tongue darted along the edge of her lower lip in anticipation. Slowly, he lowered his lips to her face, pressing his mouth ever so slightly against hers, feeling her full lips pucker against his. Sliding his fingers into the silky hair at her temples, he tilted her head back to apply more pressure, exalting in the feel of her mouth against his. A soft moan escaped the back of her throat, and he opened his mouth slightly, capturing a bit of her plump lower lip in his mouth as he pulled back. Their lips separated with a soft pop and the sound reverberated in his lower belly.

He grinned at her like a besotted fool.

Belle’s fingers were tangled in his hair, her pupils blown wide with desire, and it seemed the most natural act in the world to lower his head into her lap. For the remainder of the afternoon, he lay in her embrace, feeling her comb his hair with gentle fingers as she read aloud from one of the books in her new library.

As he sipped his spiced mead, he examined her face, looking for some sign in her countenance that she was falling in love with him. Her eyes sparkled with something akin to happiness, and he opened his mouth to tell her the truth—about his feelings, fears that she didn’t want him, the visit to the warlock—everything. Warm from drink, the afternoon sun, and his lady’s attention, he felt relaxed and content, better than he had in weeks. His eyelids seemed to be weighted down with lead. Perhaps he would close them for just a few moments.

_Belle straddled his waist as she teased him, her hair cascading around them like a veil. Between long, fevered kisses she popped sweet grapes in his mouth that exploded on his tongue. The combined taste of the fruit and his beautiful lady was heady indeed. He reached for her, flipping her onto her back, and she sighed in delight as he inflamed them both further, nipping at her neck and breasts with sharp teeth, then soothing the sting with tender laps of his greedy tongue._

When Roland stirred and awoke, his head was still cushioned in Belle’s lap and he was painfully aroused. When had he fallen asleep? He lay there paralyzed for a moment; the dream was so thick that he had to brush it away from his face, his brain and body moving languidly from too much drink.

He scanned the sky; sunset was stealing over the land, putting an abrupt end to their outing. “I must go,” he said, jerking up so fast that his head spun. Cursing under his breath, he started to rise; he’d become distracted by a restful afternoon with his lady and gotten lax.

“Roland, rest a moment longer,” Belle implored from behind him, her small hands kneading his tense shoulders. “Let us watch this glorious sunset together.”

“I said I need to go,” he snarled, wrenching himself out of her grip and spinning to his feet.

She drew back as if he’d slapped her, her eyes as wide and uncertain as a newborn fawn. “All right,” she said meekly, dropping her hands.

“Belle, I…I’m sorry,” he said, floundering for an excuse. “I imbibed too many spirits.”

“Rumple,” she said, searching his face. “We’ve known one another a long time. These last few days together have been very special. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

“Of course,” he said. But there was nothing to be done; he could feel the change creeping over him as his skin began to tingle and throb. Their kiss hadn’t broken the spell. Either Belle still wasn’t in love with him, or he had been mistaken in his quest. He couldn’t bear for it to be the former. Aye, the warlock had him running in circles, chasing his tail.

He donned his cloak and lifted the hood. If he was going to tell her about his condition, he needed to prepare her, not simply transform before her eyes. To see the horror and revulsion on her face when she saw what she was marrying? Never. Like the miserable wretch that he was, he turned away and left her standing there as he scampered back to the keep like a wounded hound.

Consumed by self-pity, Roland locked the door of his chamber and dove under the coverlet.

He buried his head in his pillow and sobbed. He simply couldn’t go on this way—lying to Belle, skulking about his own estate, and guessing as to what he must do to remedy this blasted condition.

 _See some changes indeed._ He’d changed all right, into a bloody arse with no honor or decency.

He didn’t deserve Belle.

Through the open bed curtains, he caught a reflection of himself in the glass—an ugly, twisted, frightful misfit—and was struck with the horrifying fear that his bestial outward appearance was seeping into his very being, infecting and rotting his soul like a disease. 

As evening waned into darkness, his resolve hardened. He cracked his knuckles, imagining the sorcerer’s windpipe between his fingers. David had tried and failed to suss him out, but tomorrow Roland would find the bastard, demand a cure, and then force him to beg for his sniveling existence.

* * *

Belle dismounted Phyllis, keeping her steps light and soft as she followed Roland on his mysterious journey. “Good girl,” she told the little mare, patting her muzzle to quiet her whinnies. The forest grew dense, the trees winding and twisting together, and Belle watched from a distance as Roland tied Copernicus to a tree and continued deeper into the brush on foot.

After his peculiar behavior yesterday afternoon, coupled with his disappearances each evening before sundown, she’d become convinced that Roland had taken a mistress.

For hours last evening she’d walked the castle, ducking into darkened corners and poking her head around balustrades. She shadowed the female servants with sharp eyes, listening for bits of gossip pertaining to their laird. But Roland never came up in conversation. There were no remarks on his skill between the sheets, no blushes over his manly form, not even a hint of impropriety.

Mama had warned her to be patient, but something was happening with Roland and she needed to know what it was. She was worried for him. Even in their kiss yesterday—much as she’d longed for and enjoyed the first touch of his lips on hers—something had been wrong.

She’d tasted desperation, and it scared her.

Guilt tore at her for following him, but she had to know the truth. She pressed onward.

Roland parted the thick brambles and Belle shimmied up a tree to gain a good view. She sucked in a breath as he approached a clearing and knocked on a small, ivy-covered door. No one answered, but he turned the handle and entered. Belle ground her teeth; this must be where the village whore lived. It was common enough for men to seek out these particular services, but she’d hoped her husband wouldn’t be one of them. But apparently he was familiar enough with her to walk right in!

She tried to scramble down the tree in the hopes of peering in the windows or hearing snatches of conversation through the door. At the least she wanted a look at the hussy who Roland was passing his nights with, but as she made her descent, her dress snagged on a gnarled branch. Damnable skirts! Belle tugged and pulled at the material, but it wouldn’t budge.

She should have planning this stakeout more thoroughly and borrowed one of Roland’s tunics and a pair of hose.

After a short time, Roland exited the cottage. Hot tears of shame and sorrow were pouring down Belle’s cheeks as she struggled in vain against the tree that held her captive. The pop of a branch pierced the quiet clearing, and Roland scanned the tree line.

“Belle!?” he exclaimed.

Their gazes locked and held for a tense moment.

Suddenly, the branch Belle was straddled on snapped, tearing her skirts. Belle cried out as she lost her balance and fell, plummeting toward the ground. In the blink of an eye Roland caught her, cradling her safely in his strong arms.

“Thank you,” she said stupidly, clinging to his neck like a lifeline.

Breathless, she stared into his startled eyes, so close she could see beads of sweat breaking out on his upper lip. She almost moved her fingers to his beautiful mouth to wipe the moisture away. Damn the man! Remembering her anger, she wriggled in his arms, squirming until he released her.

Confusion marred his brow as he set her on the ground. “God’s knees, what were you doing in that tree? You could have broken your neck, Belle!”

“Did you have a nice visit?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself to control her trembling limbs. She was veritably shaking with rage and jealousy.

“No one was home,” Roland said, his eyes darting away.

“What is this place? Who are you looking for?” Belle demanded.

“My God, you were spying on me,” he said, his face clouding with devastation.

Belle faltered, her heart pitching at the painful expression in his eyes. Nay, she would not allow his charms to sway her. “Do not attempt to turn this around on me, Roland. I should not _need_ to spy on you. That is the entire point of this excursion!”

“Belle, please,” he said, beseeching.

He reached for her, but she ducked away. She couldn’t think when he was touching her.

“I want to know what this place is,” she said, advancing toward the cottage. “Or do I knock on the door myself and find out?”

In a burst of temper, she flung the door wide, but inside it was naught but a simple hut, and an empty one at that. Overused rushes, a large, warped wooden table covered in dust, and an empty hearth. Belle swept a finger through the ashes. They were cold in the grate; it had been some time since anyone had inhabited this place.

“It’s abandoned,” she said, feeling stupider by the minute.

“Aye,” he said, pressing his lips together.

Belle rounded on him once more. “You have been acting peculiar almost since I arrived at your front gates. What have I done to grieve you?” she asked, her voice breaking as tears began to fall once more.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said. “’Tis me.”

“Then give me the truth.”

“I cannot explain it to you, Belle,” he whispered, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Cannot? More like will not.” She stomped her foot, vaguely aware that she was railing at him like a shrew, but she’d held these fears close to her heart for too long, and the angry accusations flowed off her tongue like hot lava. “There’s another woman, isn’t there? Aye, you’ve taken a mistress. Is this where you keep her hidden? Is this where you go when you claim to be abed at sundown? Right under my sire’s nose. Visiting her on the day before our wedding! Roland, how could you? Could you not wait until after the ceremony at least to see if bedding your wife was tolerable?”

“A mistress?” he asked, sounding bewildered. “I—

“Do not attempt to make me out to be more of a fool than you have already,” she said, cutting him off.

“Make a fool of you?” he snarled, stalking toward her. “You accuse me of consorting with a common strumpet? You who have Will Scarlet panting after you as though you were in heat? You need to learn your place, wench. I am laird here, lady, not you.”

“My place?” she cried. “Very well then, _Laird Denhaim._ Learn my place I shall. It’s anywhere but here with you. Consider the betrothal broken!”

His eyes were hard as stone. Never had she seen such coldness in his expression and she trembled, bereft from the loss of his affection. If she had ever had it to begin with.

“Aye, lady,” he said, his tone eerily detached. “You’ve been looking for an excuse to end this betrothal since the day it happened. Our sires had to strong-arm you to accept the marriage. You asked for truth. Well, I should have seen the truth for what it was long ago.”

“What do you mean?” Belle forced the question through parched lips. Her head was pounding fiercely, his words a jumble in her mind.

“Go back to Berwick where you belong,” he spat.

_But what about her dowry? The alliance between their kingdoms? That was the real reason he desired their union, wasn’t it?_

Belle opened her mouth to say as much, but the words withered and died in her throat. Blinded by tears, she turned and fled through the underbrush, running and not stopping until she reached Phyllis’s side.

Stunned and sick with grief, Belle leaned against the mare’s mane and wept, reliving every cruel word that had passed between her and the man she loved. She had called off the ceremony. Now the shock of what she’d done numbed her to the core. Maybe she should have given Roland a chance to explain, but it was too late. He had been only too happy to give into her threats to call off their marriage, uncaring about the money her father had given him and the gold that was still promised.

Aye, he couldn’t wait to be rid of her!

After hours of wandering, Belle returned to the keep. She stomped to the kitchens, her gaze landing on a tray of her favorite sweet rolls hot from the oven, the ones Leroy baked in honor of her every visit since she was a child.

She felt like a little girl now as she filched half a dozen warm buns, shoving four in the pockets of her apron and stuffing the other two into her mouth. Chewing furiously, she flung back the curtain that hid the emergency straw pallet under the stairs. If she returned to her own chamber adjacent to where Mama and Papa slept, she risked waking them with the sounds of her sobs. Belle ate every last roll, but she didn’t enjoy their sweetness the way she used to. Regret had left a bitter flavor in her mouth.

Now her stomach ached as well as her heart.

She collapsed on the little bed and snapped the curtain shut, plunging herself into darkness. All she wanted tonight was to be alone.

* * *

Roland held his lantern aloft, milling through the sea of pallets in the pitch-dark hall. Only now, long after sunset when everyone was asleep, was he free to move about the castle in his cursed form.

In truth, he was heartsick that Belle thought he was dallying with other women. Wenches had approached him, offering to warm his bed, but touching them held no appeal. Other lads had laughed and jeered about his inexperience, urging him to take his pleasure with one of the many willing women eager to warm his bed, but he shook off their insults and teasing. Roland wanted no one but Belle, and he needed to find her and tell her so.

He had it on good authority from Will Scarlet that Belle was bedding down in the kitchens in the curtained alcove under the stairs.

“Where is she?” he’d demanded, drawing his sword when the bastard gloated that Belle and the entire Berwick party would be departing in the morning. Tomorrow was to have been their wedding day, and his heart broke at the knowledge that it would never happen.

“’Tis no concern of yours anymore, Denhaim,” Scarlet spat. “On the morrow we will return to our kingdom and you’ll never see the Lady Belle again.”

“That may be true, _Scrappy_. But it is Belle’s choice to make, and I will have speech with her before she leaves,” he said, pointing his blade at the other man’s throat. “You’re not in your kingdom tonight. You’re in mine.”

Scarlet had confessed Belle’s whereabouts and stomped off with his tail between his legs.

No, waiting until morning would not do, with Belle’s people only too eager to wipe their hands of Denhaim and be gone. What must she think of him to have already spread the news of their argument far and wide? He must see Belle before he lost her forever.

Reaching the kitchens, he spied a closed curtain next to the ovens where a flicker of candlelight winked underneath, betraying her location. Roland smiled; the light was much like Belle herself—a beacon of loveliness and grace who illuminated every space she entered. Hesitant, he stood outside her hideout, the only sound within the rustle of pages and small, pathetic sniffles.

Roland sighed. This turmoil was not how he expected to spend the final days before his wedding. But someone had to be the first to move, to bend. And this time, it needed to be him. Belle could confirm her decision to end the betrothal if she chose, but he refused to lose her for good without her knowing—and seeing—everything.

“Belle?” he whispered. “It’s Rumple. May I speak with you, please?” Hot prickles of nervous sweat broke out across his forehead and he sent a fervent prayer to heaven that he might still win her. That she would have a change of heart.

“Enter,” she said in a tiny voice.

Still carefully concealed beneath his cloak, Roland drew back the curtain. Belle was curled on the mattress with her knees tucked beneath her chin, a tear-stained book in her hands and an empty cup at her side. The floor was littered with crumbs.

“Did you save me a sweet roll?” he asked teasingly as his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d missed supper.

“Nay,” she said, sounding bereft. “I ate every last bite and then I chipped one of your best teacups.”

Roland could have wept for the sadness in her voice. He wanted to gather her in his arms and hold her close, but she scooted away from him, her body as rigid as a marble statue. Repairing the damage was going to be more difficult than he first imagined.

“’Tis just a cup,” he soothed, moving to brush a strand of hair off her face. She pushed his hand away.

“Please go away, Roland,” she said, turning her back. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Belle, breaking china is hardly a sin. It’s nothing compared to what I’ve done.”

“What crime have you committed?” she asked with a bitter laugh. “You’ve been wonderful to me in every way, and I’ve thrown it back in your face. I spoke with David, and he said I was a fool to believe you had taken a lover.”

“Did he tell you anything more?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Only that you would explain yourself when you were ready.”

“While it’s true that I do not have a mistress, I am hardly without fault. I have not been honest with you, Belle,” he admitted.

Their gazes caught and held—shimmering, cornflower blue and wild, glassy yellow—and a silent moment of understanding passed between them.

“Roland…” she began.

“Belle,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” they said in unison.

“Oh, Belle. Do you forgive me? Truly?” He pressed a kiss to her palm.

“Yes, yes.” She hugged him through the thick cloak. “Do you forgive me?”

“Of course. I would forgive you anything,” he said, trembling. “Though you may rethink your forgiveness when you learn what I have done.”

“Rumple, your voice is the same, but your eyes are…strange. And the rest of your form is hidden. Does your secret have to do with that?” she asked.

“It does,” he allowed, shrinking further inside the cloak.

“You’re certain you have no mistress?” she asked, the corners of her mouth threatening to turn up in a smile.

“Never have and never will,” he vowed. “Why would I? My heart belongs to another.”

“Oh? Whom do you love?” she asked blithely, as if she could not possibly care about the answer.

“You, of course. I love you, my darling Belle,” he said, pressing her hand to his chest.

“Rumple…you love me? Truly?” she asked. A tear rolled down her velvet cheek, and he caught it with a blackened fingernail. “A smart-mouthed, short-tempered English girl who reads too much and despises needlepoint?”

“Aye,” he said ardently. “But those are merely a few of the reasons I love you. I love your spirit and your quick mind; I love the way you walk and laugh; I love to watch you lose yourself in a book, chewing on your lower lip when you get to the good parts. I love that when we are together, I feel like the most important man in the world. I love everything about you—down to the smell of your breath. My darling Belle, I come here tonight with no expectation at all. Only to declare to you that my heart is, and always will be, yours.”

“Well then,” she said, a sweet smile spreading across her face even as tears ran down her cheeks, “since we’re going to be wed tomorrow, will you show yourself to me? Please?”

“You still want to marry me?” he asked, amazed by her easy acceptance.

“Yes. Whatever it is you’re hiding, we can face it together, Rumple,” she said. “It cannot be as bad as withholding the truth.”

“What if it’s worse?” he muttered.

“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Because I love you,” she said.

Overcome by emotion, he fell to his knees before her. Belle loved him. She loved him, and he could scarcely believe it was real.

“Me?” he croaked. “A half-witted Scottish laird too cowardly to pledge his eternal devotion to his lady, so he begs a warlock for aid?”

“You did that for me?” she asked, touching his shoulders through the cloak.

“I’m not proud of my cowardice, Belle,” he said, looking at the floor. “I tried to wed you under false pretenses.”

She beamed at him. “You’re not a coward, Rumple. I think you were quite brave. And even if you were not, I would love you still.”

“Belle. My sweetheart,” he said, drawing her hands to his lips once more. “Are-are you certain you want to see this?” He gestured toward his ruined form. “It’s not attractive, and it may scare you.”

“I’m made of sterner mettle than you believe, Rumple. You could never frighten me,” she said, reaching under the hood to cup his scaly cheek. “I love you for the man you are, not what you look like. You are the kindest, gentlest, most thoughtful person I have ever known. My heartbeat quickens whenever we touch. Why, the number of times you’ve saved my life alone has me forever in your thrall. Who would save me from my clumsiness if you were not there to catch me when I fall, or save me from drowning? A man who loves and protects me with his whole heart could be nothing but beautiful to me. Please, my love, let me look at you.”

“As you wish.” Grimacing, Roland threw back the head of the cloak, baring himself to her scrutiny. He waited for her to recoil in disgust, cringing when her eyes widened and her breath caught.

Belle took his flushed face in her small, cool hands, slowly turning his head first left and then right as she examined him in the scant light. She traced her fingers over his scales, ran them down the webbed skin of his neck, and then smoothed his wild, crimped hair. To his shame, every innocent touch caused him to shiver with pleasure.

At long last, she released the breath she’d been holding.

“Rumple, you’re beautiful. Your skin sparkles like diamonds and smells like rain.” She pressed her mouth to the tripping pulse point in his neck. “Like the goblin prince.”

“Who?” he asked, smothering a moan as she grazed his chin with her teeth.

“ _The Goblin Prince—_ it’s my favorite story.” She whispered into his pointy ear as she guided him onto the mattress. Shocked by her easy acceptance of his ugliness, he moved like an obedient pup, stretching out beside her. “The one I stole from your papa the day you saved me from drowning. The prince is in love, but instead of confessing his affections to his lady, he walks the castle grounds after dark, crying for her.”

“You told me the tale once,” he managed to say as she tucked her head beneath his chin and stroked his chest, his heartbeat thundering like a thousand wild horses.

“Rumple, this change that comes over you—it happens every night at sundown?” she asked.

“Yes, and disappears by morning,” he said, recounting his strange encounter with the warlock Jefferson. “But enough of my foolish woes. The hour grows quite late, my lady. You should be abed.” Even as he said the words, he snuggled her closer, reluctant to let her leave his arms.

“Nay, let’s not go back upstairs to our separate chambers,” she coaxed. “Please? Stay here and hold me till morning.”

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, capturing her lips in a swift, hard kiss. “How can I refuse you?” He rained kisses down on the top of her head and wrapped his arms more tightly around her, settling her against his side.

“Rumple, may I ask just one more question?” She lifted her head, licking her lips as she looked at him.

“What is it?” he asked drowsily.

“Do you sparkle everywhere?” The seductive question made his body surge back to wakefulness.

“Aye,” he admitted on a strangled groan. She was going to be the death of him. “Good night, Lady Bookworm.”

“Good night, Rumple,” Belle whispered, her giggle tickling his neck.

Roland felt a thrill of triumph. There was going to be a wedding after all, and he was thrilled beyond measure. He’d changed his lady’s heart. Aye, he’d won his bride in truth, and tomorrow they would pledge themselves to one another forever.

Now assured of her love, the temptation to make Belle his wife in every way ravaged his senses. Her pert breasts were crushed against his chest, and he could feel every warm curve and valley of her lithe body through the thin material of her nightdress. Between the betrothal and the unchaperoned night she was spending in his arms, their bond was as legally binding as a marriage. He could bed her with a clear conscience, sire sons and daughters on her and not call them bastards. His body ached to make her his, but he would wait until after the ceremony.

A happy exhaustion settled in his bones, lulling him into slumber. As he drifted to sleep in the comfort of Belle’s embrace, it dawned on him that one major problem remained—his lady had declared her love for him, yet he was still cursed.


	5. Wedding Day

The morning of the wedding dawned clear and bright, and Denhaim Ruith bustled with the final preparations for the ceremony and wedding feast. Servants darted in and out of Belle’s chambers and throughout the keep, festooning every surface with fabrics, flowers, and food. Belle’s bridal gown and wedding trousseau was hanging in the antechamber. Excitement hung in the air, and she was a bundle of nervous anticipation.

She soaked in a fragrant bath laced with bergamot and roses, but she couldn’t relax. Each time she thought of Rumple, her heart fluttered. Even more thrilling than wedding the man she loved was knowing that he loved her in return. And tonight, after they took their vows, they would seal their eternal bond by making love for the first time.

* * *

 

In his chambers, Roland whistled a jaunty tune as he opened his trunk’s most secret compartment. Though he despaired of finding a cure for his ailment, there were more pleasant and important matters to tend to on this fine day. Belle loved him, and in less than two hours he would wed his beautiful bride. The latch sprang with a click, and he removed a small velvet bag from the hidden drawer.

The ring was perfect.

He held it up to the windows so he could examine it in the light. Set in the ribbons woven of the finest gold, the sparkling pale green stone reminded him of water near Greece—one of the many places he planned to take Belle on a wedding trip. 

Aye, after the wedding night, he would take her traveling. The kingdom could do without them for a few months. He would show her the wonders of Italy, Spain, and France. Then he would carry her home and fill their hall with treasures from their travels. Every luxury he could find, he would bestow upon her. He would do all he could to make her forget about his ugliness. Even if he could never find a cure, he vowed to make certain that Belle would never once regret becoming his wife.  

“Nervous?” a low voice asked.

Roland whipped his head around. The warlock sprawled in a chair close to the hearth, his grey gaze sharp. Today he was dressed in charcoal accented with jewel tones, the long tails of his otherworldly mantle flowing behind him like a peacock’s feathers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Roland demanded.

“Greetings, Laird Denhaim, you’re looking well,” the warlock said, tipping the tall turquoise hat resting on his head. “True love agrees with you.”

“Spare me your compliments, sorcerer,” he spat, gritting his teeth. “How dare you show yourself in my castle on this occasion?”

Jefferson crossed his legs, settling more deeply into the chair. “Ah, I thought I heard wedding bells. Felicitations.”

“My guards will arrive any moment, so I suggest you leave before I dispatch you myself,” Roland warned, drawing his blade.

“You’re upset,” the warlock acknowledged as Roland brandished his sword in front of his face.

“Upset? Upset does not begin to describe my state, scoundrel.” He pointed the blade at Jefferson’s neck. “I came to you for help and you cursed me to hell. I’ve spent nigh two weeks of misery thanks to you, and naught has changed except for my already pathetic visage becoming uglier.”

The warlock chuckled. “Ah, but that misery was of your own making, Denhaim. And something _has_ changed.”

“Try again, warlock,” Roland said, waving his sword. “I grow impatient with your riddles.”

“Roland—you don’t mind if I call you Roland, do you?”

“Aye, I mind,” he snapped.

“Very well then. _Roland_ , you asked me to help ascertain your lady’s affections, and you’ve done so, yes?” The warlock tilted his head, waiting for a response.

He gave a reluctant nod.

“The lady loves you, and you love her,” the warlock said with a smile. “Today you shall finally wed. Perhaps my methods were…unconventional, but they succeeded nonetheless.”

Roland snorted. “Do not flatter yourself. How did your methods succeed, exactly, when I did all the wooing? Thrice I came looking for you for a cure, and to no avail. I tried everything. My lady has pledged her love, yet I am still cursed. How am I to rule a kingdom in this fashion?”

Jefferson arched an elegant brow. “You look fine to me.”

“Don’t toy with me, sorcerer,” he spat. “I speak of sundown when my wedding guests run screaming from the great hall as I transform into a demon.”

“You’re a bit thickheaded, Roland,” the warlock said. “Mayhap a touch melodramatic, too. Nay, don’t look at me like that—the trait often serves you well. There’s nothing you would not do for those you love, the Lady Belle most of all.”

“Of course I would do anything for Belle,” Roland said softly, his ire forgotten at the mention of her name. “She is worth any risk.”

“Do not tell me, man; tell her.” The warlock tipped his hat again. “Good morrow, lady.”

Roland spun about to see Belle hovering in the doorway. She was captivating in a dressing gown the color of emeralds, her hair loose about her shoulders. A tiny smile played on her full lips, and he wondered how much of the exchange she had overheard. Roland rushed to her side to draw her into his embrace.

“Hello, my love,” Belle said, casting a curious glance in the warlock’s direction. “Is everything well?”

“Ah, l’amour. Lady Belle, allow me to introduce myself,” the warlock said with a sweeping bow. “I am Jefferson.”

* * *

“Good day, sir.” Belle inclined her head toward the strangely garbed man, the tension between he and her betrothed thick enough to slice with a dagger. “You must be Rumple’s warlock.”

“Clever girl,” Jefferson said, nodding his approval. “Though somewhat dense in the ways of the heart.”

Belle narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

Roland moved in front of her, blocking Jefferson from her view. “Belle, do not exchange speech with this bastard or attempt to puzzle through his endless riddles. He is on his way out, never to be seen in the village again, or else I send him to the gallows to be executed at your pleasure.”

“I see,” Jefferson replied, seeming to brush off the threat as he sank into a chair by the hearth. “Did you tell your lady why you sought a love potion?”

“To make her fall in love with me,” Roland snapped. “She knows this.”

“Is that the only reason?” Jefferson asked.

“Aye...nay,” he said, casting her a guilty look. Roland colored and turned toward her, canting his head down.

“What is it, Rumple?” Belle asked, caressing his furrowed brow. “You can tell me anything.”

Roland blew out a breath. “I _was_ jealous of Will Scarlet. I knew you never really wanted me, ever since you refused to marry me seven years ago. ‘Twas desperation that drove me to the warlock’s hut. I didn’t want us to marry out of obligation to an agreement between our kingdoms, but for love. Belle...” he blinked, and his eyes filled with tears. “I’m so thankful you had a change of heart.”

“But I didn’t,” Belle said, shaking her head. “Rumple, I’ve been in love with you for ages.”

His eyes widened in surprise at her admission, and she laced her fingers with his.

“Oh, I’ve longed to tell you, but it never seemed to be the right time. I know I angered you that day by the moat when I refused to marry you—I’ve tried to say I’m sorry so many times, but I couldn’t find the words,” Belle said, her voice cracking with emotion. “You were always patient, kind, and helpful—as you were that day so long ago. But you seemed so _unaffected_ by me and it hurt. It was torture to want you and not be wanted in return.”

“Angry with you? Nay. Oh, Belle, I didn’t want to burden you with my love when you were being forced to wed me,” Roland protested as a tear spilled down his face.

“I know that now,” Belle said, giving him a cheerful smile through her own tears. “Even though ‘tis my dowry that is most desirable. That’s all right. Marriages are practical affairs.”

“Unaffected? What nonsense are you spouting, lady?” Roland asked, cupping her shoulders and giving her a scorching look that turned her insides into mush. “Believe me, sweetheart, I am affected. Last night with you in my arms, I could barely breathe, much less sleep. Hang the bloody dowry—you are my heart’s desire. I don’t want your gold. I never did—that was my father’s doing. I’ve already spoken with your sire. The kingdom will repay every coin we ever took from Berwick’s coffers. With interest.”

Belle could not believe her ears. She’d been wrong about everything. All these years she had assumed she was a dowry and a duty, but Roland wanted her. Bookish, odd, opinionated Belle de Berwick was enough—just as she was. She would have laughed for the joy that bubbled up inside her, but it was too tender to put on display.

“I don’t know what to say,” she stammered, for once at a loss for words, and then she couldn’t speak at all because Rumple’s lips were devouring hers.

“Say you’ll marry me this moment,” Roland murmured against her mouth. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

“Aye,” she said, tears of joy leaking from her eyes. “I’ll go finish dressing.”

“A moment, please,” Jefferson interrupted. “Before you go, satisfy my curiosity. Roland, where did you get the idea that a declaration of Lady Belle’s love would cure your affliction?”

Belle gasped as Roland swung his blade, nicking the warlock’s ear. “Thanks to you, I had naught else to go on,” he said, his eyes glittering with bloodlust. “If this was not a test of true love, what was it? Be quick. I have a mind to shed more blood this morning.”

“Honesty.” Jefferson healed his ear with a touch of his finger and wagged it at Roland. “Along with love, honesty is the cornerstone of marriage. You would have known the Lady Belle loved you if only you had asked.” The warlock pivoted in her direction. “The same is true for you, my lady. You both concealed your feelings out of fear. Neither one of you trusts in your own worth—but your true worth is reflected in the eyes of the one who loves you.”

A jolt of realization shot through Belle at his words. _Roland is the goblin prince and I am his true love_. Through a series of misunderstandings, they had almost lost each other, but the warlock’s clever trick had forced them to confront and confess their feelings. Belle looked at their strange matchmaker with new respect.

Rumple grunted his assent at Jefferson’s wisdom, but judging from the way Rumple tugged on his tunic and glared, he did not share her admiration for their unusual friend. She hid a smile behind her hand; her betrothed had suffered the brunt of their lesson, and it was clear that Jefferson was draining his last reserves of patience.

“David,” Roland called out the door. “Send the men in, and order them to drag this counterfeit sorcerer outside the gates. I grow tired of his prattling.”

“You don’t wish to know the cure to your affliction, then?” Jefferson shrugged as David appeared, standing sentinel in the doorway. “As you wish.”

“Wait,” Belle called out as the warlock began to walk away. “So there is an antidote?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” he said, turning back. “‘Tis not something you can eat or drink, nor a pill you can swallow. It will require wholehearted devotion—from both of you.”

Belle exchanged a nervous glance with Rumple and linked her arm with his. “Name it and the deed shall be done.”

“The affliction will be dealt with at your consummation,” the warlock said. “Lady Belle, when you accept Roland into your body, you will become one flesh. You will destroy the spell’s power by absorbing it, and he will be cured.”

* * *

The remainder of the day passed in a blur of laughter and love.

Mama, Mary Margaret de Caoraich, and a handful of ladies-in-waiting helped Belle dress in the blue gown accented with gold. Mama had sewn feverishly to have it ready in time. Although Belle was not fond of preening in front of mirrors, today she looked closely at her reflection. Her gown fit to perfection, and her hair was arranged in loose ringlets. In the Saracen tradition, a crown woven of orange blossoms graced her head, and she wore the enamel and gold wedding brooch that had belonged to Rumple’s mama. Lifting her skirt, she admired her garter and an ache of pleasure swelled in her belly as she imagined Rumple removing it with eager hands.

Mama pressed a bouquet of roses, peonies, and lavender sprigs into her hands as she joined her in the mirror. “Belle, the blush of love paints your cheeks and your eyes sparkle like sapphires,” she said.

When at last Papa guided her past the twin lines of rose bushes leading to the chapel, Belle was floating so high it was as though she was looking down on the scene from heaven. Fragrant rhododendron blossoms decorated each pew of the tiny church, and family and friends turned and stood—her parents, David and Mary Margaret, and other dearly beloved—honoring her as she approached the aisle.   

Belle’s limbs trembled as she took her first steps onto the carpet of roses, and she was grateful to have her father to hold onto with one arm and her bouquet to clutch in the other. The beauty of her surroundings and the murmur of their guests faded in a haze of color and light, narrowing her focus down to one.

Rumple stood waiting for her at the front of the chapel, a tremulous smile playing on his lips. 

Her laird was resplendent in a crimson and gold silk doublet and soft brown leather breeches, the traditional blue ribbon symbolizing purity tied on his right arm. He’d forgone the traditional buckled shoes and hose in favor of chocolate boots polished to a golden sheen that molded to his calves. His dark eyes found hers, and in them she saw a love so strong it robbed her of breath.

“You are well and truly in love, aren’t you, daughter?” Papa asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he gave her into Roland’s care and they knelt before the priest and Jefferson.

The warlock had insisted on co-officiating their union with the chaplain. Lips quirked in the half smile Belle loved so dearly, Roland replied that he didn’t care who and how many people married them, so long as the deed was done today. Belle had been delighted. Thanks to the odd sorcerer’s machinations, there were no secrets between her and Rumple. They had traveled a long and winding road to find happiness, but now they knew everything. Nothing would keep them apart, and they would belong to each other forevermore.

Lost in Roland’s eyes, Belle missed most of the chaplain’s word, and before she realized it, her husband was slipping a wedding band onto her finger. It was a stunning arrangement—a pale aqua stone encircled by diamonds and roses swirled out of gold— and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it could have been designed by no one but her husband.

“You may kiss your bride,” Jefferson invited, and when Rumple’s lips met hers, Belle knew nothing of space and time. Only the secure warmth of her beloved’s embrace kept her standing on solid ground.

“A thousand welcomes to you with your marriage. May you be healthy all your days. May you be blessed with long life and peace, may you grow old with goodness, and with riches,” Jefferson said, concluding the ceremony.

After seven years of waiting and wondering, they married at last.

Hand-in-hand, Belle jumped the broom with her husband, and together they walked out of the chapel and into their new life.

* * *

It was a sumptuous wedding banquet. The sounds of laughter and chatter swelled through the great hall while Leroy stomped about, ordering the kitchen servants to bring out platter upon platter of delicacies. Eel in a savory herb sauce, chicken with pine nuts, spicy creamed rabbit, Belle’s favorite sweet wheat cakes, and _confetto_ —a sweet mixture of nuts, dried fruit, and honeyed almonds—were piled onto long wooden tables for all to feast upon.

Too excited to take a bite, Belle took a fortifying sip of spiced wine and smiled over the rim of the wedding cup before she passed the chalice back to Rumple, who ate his usual hearty quantities of all the offerings.

The minstrels played, the guests sang bawdy tunes, and Belle danced with her new husband until she was breathless and her toes pinched in her wedding shoes. All around her, couples seemed to glow with the light of love. David and Mary Margaret de Caoraich smiled into each other’s eyes; Sir Archibald and Lady Ruby fed each other choice bits from their plates; even Mama and Papa seemed especially taken with each other today as they strolled through the hall accepting well-wishes.

As Belle whirled around the floor she noticed Anastasia, one of the ladies from David and Mary Margaret’s estate, throwing heated glances in Will Scarlet’s direction. He was sending back shy glances of his own, and Belle decided to introduce them during the festivities. Will needed to find a special lady, and the spark of attraction between them made Belle think that Anastasia would be a perfect match.

When sunset approached, Roland scooped Belle into his arms and carried her up the winding staircase to the wedding chamber. Their friends followed, hooting, hollering, and tossing the confetto as they jostled for position to grab Belle’s garter.

Roland closed and barred the door behind them, drowning out the good-natured whistles and jeers and the pounding of feet as the guests raced back to the great hall. The celebration far from over, their feasting would continue below stairs until they had eaten every morsel of food and drank every drop of wine and mead.

As for Roland and Belle, they were finally alone in the bedchamber—their bedchamber—and Belle crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly shy. She’d been anticipating this night for a long time, but now that it was here, insecurities taunted and her eyes darted around the room to the fireplace, the windows, and the massive four-posted bed.

Belle looked everywhere except at Roland.

“You are breathtaking tonight, Lady Denhaim,” he said, quirking his lips in an affectionate half-smile and drawing her into his arms. He massaged her shoulders with his large, warm hands, and the action grounded her, reminding her that she was safe and loved, that there was no reason to be afraid. Together they stood at the open window and inhaled the salty evening air, watching the sun wave farewell beyond the sea.

When Belle next turned to look at Rumple, a change was creeping over him, crawling like a bed of moss until his skin was grey-green and his eyes were amber and clear.

His Adam’s Apple bobbed and he looked at the floor. Now it was her husband who was nervous and in need of her comfort.

“Does it pain you? The change in your appearance?” she asked, tilting his chin up so she could gaze into his reptilian eyes, so different from his usual warm brown orbs, yet still comfortingly familiar.

“Nay. Knowing you must bear my ugliness grieves me, but it doesn’t hurt,” he said.

“You’re beautiful to me, no matter how you look, but for your sake, I’m happy tonight will be the last night you must endure,” she said, swirling her fingers through his crimped hair. “I myself shall rather miss your impish looks.”

“My sweet Belle, whatever would I do without you?” he murmured, edging closer to cover her mouth with his.

He kissed her then, taking his time, nibbling at her lips in sweet nips, tiny licks, and scrapes of teeth. Belle pressed against him, seeking more heat, but he kept the touch of their mouths careful and light. When at last he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, she opened to him like a flower craving sun. As his velvet tongue plundered hers for the first time, Belle moaned into his mouth and wrapped her arms tighter around his shoulders.

She felt the whisper of his breath on her closed eyelids and she eased back to look at him.  “Rumple, I -I’ve never done this before.”

“Neither have I, sweetheart,” he said. “This will be a first for both of us.”

Tears sprang to her eyes at his confession. “Why?” she asked, puzzled that a nobleman with so many women at his disposal would deny himself the pleasures of the flesh.

“It’s simple, really,” he said. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”

“Rumple.” She breathed his name like a prayer, her heart swelling with love for this incredible man as he began his tender exploration of her mouth once more.

While they kissed, his clever fingers worked the laces down her spine, divesting her of layers of clothing until she wore only her gossamer-thin shift. The pads of his thumbs scorched her skin through the fabric, and a tremor ricocheted throughout her entire body.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his glittering eyes hooded with desire.

“You are wearing far too many clothes,” she said, scarcely recognizing the husky note in her own voice as she knelt before him to unlace his boots. Together they peeled off his doublet, breeches, and undergarments until he was standing gloriously naked before her. Blood thrummed in her ears as his golden flesh sparkled and rippled in the firelight. The contrast between her white skin and his dark, golden hue heightened her excitement.

It was the body of a warrior, lean yet strong, and heat pooled in her belly as she drank in the sight of him, remarkable to her even in his cursed state. Though his skin appeared scaled, it was soft to the touch. His manhood jutted proudly from his body, hot and smooth, and Belle brushed her fingers across his hardness in gentle exploration, delighting in his harsh moan.

“I-we should not do that, sweetheart,” he said through clenched teeth, capturing her hands and bringing them to his lips. “Not yet. I do not wish for our pleasure in the act to end before it has even begun.”

Illuminated by the firelight, Roland could see the round outline of Belle’s breasts and the thatch of curls between her thighs through her chemise. Mindful of his sharp, black claws, Roland palmed her globes with light, inquisitive fingers, careful not to pinch her. Dark hands knead her milky flesh, and he claimed her mouth in an ardent kiss, then brushed a thumb over her nipple. They gasped in unison when the little bud hardened into a taut peak.

“Does that feel good?” he asked nervously, lowering his head to lap the other nipple with an experimental flick of his tongue. 

Belle moaned in response. Through the shift, her nipple was hot, rough and soft all at once, and he began to worry the tender bud slowly, increasing his intensity. Soon the fabric was damp from his ministrations.

Shaking with need, he started to remove the last layer between them. Instead it was Belle’s own fingers that pulled at the chemise, the delicate fabric tearing in her hands until both her breasts were naked. Groaning, he buried his mouth in the valley between them, his pulse thundering in his ears. 

The shift pooled on the floor, and he lifted Belle in his arms, bearing her down in the center of the bed so he could worship her body with mouth and hands. With trembling anticipation, he mapped her soft skin; he traced the curve of her hip, dipped his tongue into her navel, and caressed the arches of her tiny feet. Ignoring his own arousal, he continued to explore and taste her skin. Her woman’s scent wafted toward him, musky and sweet, and he growled when she pushed at his shoulders.

“I want to see you, too,” she said. He obeyed, rolling onto his back so she could look her fill at his ugliness. That she didn’t find him unattractive was a marvel, and he lay there beneath her scrutiny, quaking as she mouthed a tender line down his face and neck, chest and belly. All the while, her hands were busy stroking his hips and thighs. Like his own first caresses, her touches were clumsy, untried, but her eager innocence set him on fire.

Suddenly she was kissing the weeping tip of his cock, licking the slit, and he nearly shot off the bed. “Where,” he panted, “where did you learn to do that?”

Belle beamed at him, her wide blue eyes twinkling in the fire. “I read it in a book once.”

He groaned, drawing her back up the length of his body so he could feel every inch of her. “Religious texts indeed.”

It was all he could do to stay in control; a primal urge within wanted to throw her down on the bed and drive into her, fast and hard. Nay, he would not rut like an animal with his wife. With shaking limbs, he dragged a single finger across her sex, moaning when he found her wet and warm. She cried out, arching toward him as she did, and tugged at his hair.

“Rumple…” She gasped, her breathing shallow. “Please do that again.”

Longing to make their loving good for her, he repeated the motion, praying for the stamina and finesse to do so.

“More,” she whispered, and he moaned again at her plea as he continued to stroke her, his fingers teasing the depths of her while his thumb found a little circle of flesh at the top of her sex that made her howl. Her cries became louder, more frantic, and she tossed her head, her urgent thrashing telling him she was close to release.

Belle could barely speak through her shallow, unfinished breaths, and she bowed her back in search of Rumple’s fingers, seeking something she could not name. Higher and higher the flames licked, driving her into a welter of heat and wanting. All at once the feeling crested and waves of pleasure washed over her. She sobbed in pure surrender, absorbing every sensation as she spiraled into oblivion.

Never had she felt a pleasure so incredible. And Rumple had been the one to give it to her. But even that precious gift was not enough to ease the throbbing ache within her.

Still she craved more. She needed to be filled.

“Come inside me now,” she whispered, reveling in his wonderful weight as he settled between her thighs.

“I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart,” he said anxiously, peppering kisses all over her face.

“You won’t,” she replied, running her hands up and down his back. “Come inside me, my goblin prince. I need you.”

With a grunt of assent, he reached down between their bodies and glided into her welcoming warmth. Slowly he pushed inside of her, stretching, burning her on the inside. She was surrounded by him, his wonderful scent of leather and musk overwhelming her senses as she hissed out a breath.

Prickles of sweat popped out on Rumple’s forehead, and she opened her mouth against his neck, feeling the cords of tension as he trembled above her. There was a momentary sting as he pressed all the way inside, and he froze, sweetly uncertain of his welcome.

“Make love to me, Rumple,” she urged, reassuring him as the pain subsided. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never,” he swore, beginning his long, slow thrusts, and Belle wrapped her legs around his flanks.

Together they found a rhythm that thrilled them both, and Belle gazed into his eyes, their color darkening from amber to chocolate as they gave and took pleasure from one another. It was happening just as Jefferson said it would; the affliction from the potion Roland had drank was ebbing away.

“Rumple, yes,” she said, lifting her hips, “the spell is breaking.”

Roland wouldn’t have cared at that moment if he looked like a monster for the rest of his days. Belle’s sheath was impossibly tight, squeezing and pulsing around his shaft, and he gritted his teeth against a burst of sensation. She was a fire in his bones, his soul crying out to hers as he fought for control.

“Belle, I can’t…” He pleaded as she sucked on the curve of his neck. It all felt much too good. Desperate, he reached between their slick bodies to find her silken nub again, needing to bring her to completion once more as he surged to his own release.

She screamed his name as she came, the sweet music of her pleasure pushing him over the edge until he burst, blinded by tiny shards of color and light. A current of magic crackled through the chamber as he poured his seed into Belle’s fevered channel, thrusting until she had milked him thoroughly, wringing out every last drop.

Exhausted and satiated, Belle welcomed the collapse of his body atop hers and slid her arms around his back, holding him close. There were tears on her lover’s face and she kissed them away, crooning in his ear. “Rumple, your affliction is gone. The spell—it’s broken.”

“Aye,” he said on a choking sob. “I felt it leave me, saw the magic arc through the chamber.”

“Then why are you weeping, my darling?” she asked, pressing her cheek against his wet one.

“Oh, sweetheart. I have wanted you for so long, and now it’s almost too much for me. What you have done—taking my curse into yourself and driving it out—you are fearless. You have changed me, and now I’ll never be the same,” he whispered.

“I am changed as well,” she said. “But ‘tis your love that has made me bold, Rumple. The heartbeat of my courage is in you.”

“I love you, Belle,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“And I you,” she said.

They lay together in the stillness for a time, listening to the ruckus below stairs. “Soon they’ll be here with the bride’s broth to reinvigorate us,” Roland observed.   

“Let’s put on our robes and welcome them,” she said with a cheeky smile. “I want to do that again—soon.”

“Naughty minx,” he growled, tickling her ribs until she squealed. Suddenly his brow furrowed and he regarded her with serious eyes. “Have you any regrets, Belle?”

“One,” she said, propping her elbows up on his chest.

“Oh,” he said, looking devastated.

“I failed to wear my new night rail for you,” she said, her blue eyes dancing with merriment.

“Thank God,” he said with a sigh, and she knew she would have to ease into teasing him. Their admissions of love were still new, the feelings tender and raw. Her sensitive husband was worried that she regretted their marriage, and she looked forward to showering him with love and assurance until every last doubt was gone.

“I cherish every moment of our relationship since the day we met, Rumple. A bride only has one wedding night, and mine was beyond anything I have ever asked or imagined,” she said, blushing.

Elated by her words, he caught her in his arms and rolled them back onto the bed. “My darling Belle. Pack the nightgown in your trunk, angel. Now that I am healed of both my condition and my foolishness, I am taking my bride to see the world.”

“My world is here in this room, with you. But—”she slanted her eyes at him—“if you insist, I would not object to having you love me in a gondola.”

“I think that can be arranged,” he said with a dry smile.

“Speaking of loving, here they come with the bride’s broth,” Belle said as the revelers thumped down the corridor, shouting their names.

As the creamy moon rose high in the sky, Roland slipped Belle’s robe around her shoulders with a joyful laugh, scrambling to don his own. With Belle by his side, he threw open the door.

 

- _The End-_

**Author's Note:**

> In case you are curious, Denhaim means "imp" in Scottish Gaelic and de Caoraich means "of sheep."


End file.
